













































THE 


CLUBS OF LONDON ; 

> * - 

£ WITH 

ANECDOTES OF THEIR MEMBERS 
SKETCHES OF CHARACTER, 


CONVERSATIONS. 

|A<_ f di^L 

• » 



IN TWO VOLUMES. 


VOL. I. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY, LEA & CAREY.—CHESNUT STREET. 

SOLD IN NEW-YOItK BY G. & C. CARVILL> 

1828 , 












t 


















/ 




ADVERTISEMENT. 



It is almost unnecessary to remind the Reader, 
.hat a few of the Anecdotes in the First Volume of 
this Work have already appeared in “The New 
Monthly Magazine. ” 







THE 


CLUBS OF LONDON. 


INTRODUCTION. 

There is not a more pleasing episode in the mono¬ 
tonous tale of fashionable life, than a good club; nor 
is it national bigotry to maintain that it is exclusively 
an English association. The word is untranslateably 
English. In spite of the long standing calumny, that 
our habits are uncommunicative, an Englishman’s club 
is one of the types of his moral constitution, which 
is essentially gregarious. It is not easy to describe all 
that is included in so complex an idea. Once fetter 
it with the chains of a definition ;—circumscribe its 
comforts, its enjoyments, its warm communion of 
heart, within the limits of any precise term,—and it 
is no longer a club. 

Yet how grossly has this word been abused ! Jaco¬ 
bins, Feuillans, Whigs, and Pittites, have successively 
usurped it; as if leagues and confederations to keep 
alive political passions, or to propagate political sym- 

A 2 



INTRODUCTION. 


pathies, deserved a name, which, but for a gross de¬ 
pravation of language, would have been held sacred 
to the gentler intercourse, and undisturbed fellowship 
it originally designated ! 

A specific purpose pursued in confederation will not 
make a club; otherwise the Society for the Suppression 
of Vice, and the Holy Alliance, would be clubs. But 
in its genuine, unperverted meaning, how much is in¬ 
cluded in the phrase ! what kind-hearted feelings, what 
a cluster of cheerful sensations and of innocent de¬ 
lights, lie embedded in that homely monosyllable ! 

We do not, by any means, claim the honours of this 
venerable title for several modern subscription-houses, 
which, by a colloquial usurpation are called Clubs. 
'They are merely substitutes for the coffee-houses, 
which they have superseded. It was not the love of 
pleasant companionship that gave them birth ; but a 
thrifty speculation, that purveys at the cheapest rate 
for sensual satisfaction, and is intent on nothing more 
than getting, with Harpagon, bonne chere avec pen 
d’argent. The social elements of the club-room go 
for nothing in such a calculation. Negative qualities, 
merely, are the tests of admission. 

Not to be wholly exceptionable ; how different is 
this from being agreeable ? To belong to a respecta¬ 
ble class ;—how tame is this to forming a class by one’s 
self!—In short, the club-feeling does not subsist 
amongst the selfish and worldly beings of these places. 
Brought together to-day by no community of senti¬ 
ment or of enjoyment, they may be dispersed to-mor¬ 
row without the rupture of a single tie. No one by 
quitting such an association leaves a place that is felt 
to be void. Whether he leave it to traverse distant 



INTRODUCTION. 


7 


countries, or descend into the cold grave, he only 
makes a vacancy that is instantly filled up. This is 
not fellowship but association; or rather a fortuitous 
concurrence of human atoms, cemented by no part 
either of the heart or the understanding. 

How remote is all this from a club properly so call¬ 
ed ! There, mutual esteem, mutual habitude, mutual 
kindness, first directed the choice, and afterwards 
strengthened the union. There we find a sort of de¬ 
fensive alliance of all against the ills and perturbations 
by which each is assailed. It is the mart to which 
every one comes attired in his holiday feelings, and 
beaming with his sunshine looks ; and where the kind¬ 
liest commerce of friendship and good-will and glad¬ 
ness is carried on. Its fundamental charter is an unas¬ 
suming, unenvious equality. There the first pronoun 
personal is obliged to keep a decent subordination. No 
self-important coxcomb can dictate as he pleases; no 
East India Colonel prose by the hour; no huckster in 
common gossip, ply his dirty traffic. 

Yet the harmless,—the not unpleasing vanities, bud¬ 
ding out evermore from our self-love,—the trunk from 
which half of our qualities germinate,—good, bad, or 
indifferent,—these, when they assume a placid form, 
and trespass not against the self-love of others, as they 
cannot be suppressed, so they ought not to be interdict¬ 
ed ; for they are a part of the human being, and go a 
great way to make him an individual. To sever them 
from him, would be a harsh mutilation. 

He must be a sour, austere, or, in one word, an un¬ 
clublike creature, who would grudge a short hearing 
to the narratives that confer upon us a few moments 
of dignity, as we recount them ;—the innocent chro * 


INTRODUCTION. 


S 

nicies of our younger, or of our sunnier, hours, which 
we live over again almost in their first freshness whilst 
we are telling them ! How cruel to cut off from us 
that second life, brief and momentary as it is! to ex¬ 
act an arithmetical precision on such an occasion ; to 
lie on the watch, crouching for the slip of a date, then 
to pounce upon us, and break the whole texture to the 
last thread, in the w T anton exercise of a mere matter-of- 
fact despotism ! 

It is the universal complaint, that the occupation of 
the dramatic writer is gone; and, as we are loath to 
admit a decline of genius as a cause for any thing in 
the present day, we accuse the uniformity of modern 
manners, and the levelling influences of fashion, of 
making one man merely a counterpart to his neigh¬ 
bour, and of leaving the comic poet classes instead of 
individuals for his materials. Nothing, it is said, stands 
out sufficiently in relief. Human society being com¬ 
pared to a gallery of portraits, with one invariable 
family simper, and as much alike, as if they had all 
been painted by Kneller,—the humorists, once the 
staple commodity of the drama, are said to have be¬ 
come extinct. Yet, we will venture to say, that these 
personages are still to be found at a club truly Eng¬ 
lish, and founded on genuine club-principles. For it 
is there that every one gives vent to feelings which 
he suppresses in the artificial intercourses of life. It 
is there that his qualities stand out undisguised and 
unrestrained; that affectation and false pretence aro 
immediately detected, and the whole man brought for¬ 
ward in his just and unborrowed proportions. 

In that club, the beau-ideal of clubs, “ the club ,, ‘ 
par-excellence , (and can we mean any other than that 



INTRODUCTION. 


9 


of the Spectator?) how admirably, and by what exact 
and harmonious clock-work, do the humours and ec¬ 
centricities of each member strike at their appointed 
seasons! How exquisitely modified, how tempered 
into a bland assimilation, is each man’s especial vanity, 
—if that be the proper term for any thing so unoffend¬ 
ing ! Whatever the thing may be, how kindly does 
it tolerate the little outbreakings of it in others ! There 
is no surly cognizance taken of the little amplifica¬ 
tions with which our natural good-will to our own 
stories occasionally embellishes them ; no cold, icy 
sneer at those half-fictions, which fancy, without our 
eonsent, sometimes entangles in the frail web of our 
reminiscence. The amiable and benignant Sir Roger, 
with his bundle of good-natured whims and prejudices, 
diffuses himself over the freaks of his youth, and list¬ 
ens in his turn, with placid respect,—spite of their 
difference in politics,—to the mercantile sententious¬ 
ness of Sir Andrew Freeport, the modest narrations 
of Captain Sentry, and the self-complacent gallantries 
of that battered beau, Will Iioneycombe. 

The age of such clubs is, alas! gone by ; but Addi¬ 
son’s, will always remain the ideal model of a perfect 
club, though only a shadowing froth of his fancy. In 
those days, however, there were real clubs, equal in 
every respect to that ingenious portraiture, but to 
which nothing now offers a parallel. 

There was the Kit-Kat, where heroes and patriots, 
the pride and glory of the realm, soothed their grave 
and dignified cares, in easy, tranquil communion, 
within the “warm precincts” of a tavern-parlour. 
When that club lost its snngness , as it did when it 
became a mere political association, it soon expired.-^* 


ID 


INTRODUCTION. 




Then flourished also the Scriblerus-club, where Swift, 
Harley, Arbuthnot, Pope, Gay, and Craggs the young¬ 
er, mingled in nightly converse. 

Nearer to our own days, was the club originally held 
at the Essex-head, where the genius of Samuel John¬ 
son, Burke, Reynolds, Goldsmith, Windham, and Fox, 
threw out its milder,—its evening radiance, over their 
easy and unrestrained communications of heart and 
intellect.— Nodes , coenseque Deorum ! The conversa¬ 
tion in this delightful society was always unforced and 
natural, and ran smoothly and gently along, touching 
upon every topic that occurred, like Shakspeare’s cur¬ 
rent, “ giving a kiss to every stone it overtaketh in 
its pilgrimage.” Even Johnson’s growl was softened 
into something that resembled amenity ; and if you 
examine closely the composition of that club, you will 
see the felicity of its contexture ; and how cunningly 
its tints were disposed and varied through their several 
shades and gradations, from the rich and gorgeous glow 
of such minds as Burke’s, to the chastised wit and 
unambitious pleasantry of Topham Beauclerck, the let¬ 
tered ease and good sense of Bennet Langton, and 
then to the excellent individuals, who, though of hum¬ 
bler pretensions, were not stocks or stones, but of 
shrewd, sterling, understandings ; and whose remarks 
were always listened to with respect and attention. 
It has been asserted that there was seldom any set 
discussion amongst them; for, the easy copiousness and 
discursive range of Burke’s conversation brought to¬ 
gether so many hints and allusions, as to create a per¬ 
petual variety and alternation of discourse. This, in¬ 
deed, was Burke’s theory of conversation, 66 the per¬ 
fection of which,” he once remarked, “was, not to 





INTRODUCTION. 11 

play a regular sonata, but, like the iEolian harp, to 
await the inspiration of the •' passing breeze.’ ” 

We know not exactly whence it arises.—We meet 
in every circle, in every drawing-room, in every cof¬ 
fee-house, at every table, more well-informed persons 
than ever; but every body has remarked, that profess¬ 
ed literary men are not pleasant or instructive com¬ 
panions when they meet together. A little sprinkling 
of them infuses an agreeable variety in a party, but, 
like some families, they should never visit in a group. 
—Does this well-founded reproach arise from that pro¬ 
fessional backwardness which modestly prohibits one 
star from shining at the expense, or in the presence, 
of others of equal magnitude ? Or is it, that, when a 
knot of learned personages are drawn together, they 
are apt to descant, in technical language, on subjects 
something beyond the comprehension of common mor¬ 
tals ? and, when good manners prohibit this exclusive 
converse, that, an author is generally so little a man 
of the world, as to be unable, or unwilling, to descend 
to the small talk of the day ?—Or is it not, rather, that, 
when in such company, a good thought, or new idea 
arises, the inspired person prefers to reserve it for 
his next Magazine Essay,—his New Novel,—or his 
long promised Treatise on Political Economy,—rath¬ 
er than, by proclaiming it on the spot, to give his lit¬ 
erary rivals the undue advantage of priority of publi¬ 
cation ? 

Literary men seldom think aloud : they think upon 
paper, that their thoughts may not be thrown away. 
They are, moreover, in company, too much on the 
alert in making observations upon character, and in 
picking up the best thoughts of other persons, to be 




12 


INTRODUCTION. 


able to afford their share of the general entertainment; 
When, however, there is only one learned Theban in 
company, he generally shines ; for, he dreads no rival¬ 
ry nor petty larceny , and he feels himself to be the 
representative of his fraternity in the General Congress 
of Society the Ambassador of Apollo, at the Court 
of the Muses,—where he is called upon to support the 
credit of his profession :—the majority of his auditors ", 
consequently admire him for the instruction that falls 
from his lips ; and they are grateful to him for remov¬ 
ing the veil of ignorance from between their eyes and 
those subjects which he has particularly studied. 

The best clubs, therefore, are those where men of 
letters, men of commerce, and men of the world, com¬ 
mune together : and we find now and then in a cathe¬ 
dral-town what perhaps is no longer to be found in 
the metropolis,—an association in which all these ele¬ 
ments are happily blended. Besides, the natural char¬ 
acter there is not effaced and worn down ; a club, in 
a provincial city, being frequently a hortus siccus of 
all the varieties of civilized society. There may be 
persons of lettered and studious habits amongst them, 
but not in sufficient numbers to feel a corporate spirit, 
or to overlay the native whim and humour of less cul¬ 
tured minds. 

Since the time of Dr. Johnson, the Clubs of emi¬ 
nence in London have, for the most part, been assem¬ 
blages of noblemen and gentlemen connected with the 
Court and with the Houses of Parliament. In this 
elevated society, it might be thought that there would 
be fewer peculiarities of character than in the inferior 
circles ;—that the process of classical education, and 
the usages and forms of fashionable life, would have 



INTRODUCTION. 


I n 

O 

assimilated the different individuals to one model : 
such, however, is not always the case ; for our readers 
will see, in the following pages, that the wits and hu¬ 
morists who formed, and do form, the brilliant co¬ 
teries here alluded to, present a variety of character , 
as rich and as strongly marked, as is found in the cele¬ 
brated comedy which has contributed to immortalize 
the name of one of their most distinguished members, 
—Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 


vol. i. 


B 














4 


1 . 

SHERIDAN’S 

INTRODUCTION INTO BROOKES’S. 

It is proper to premise, that when any gentleman 
is desirous of being a member of Brookes’s it is ne¬ 
cessary that two members should propose him, and 
that his name, with those of the proposers, should 
be inscribed on a board over the fire-place of the 
club-room, for one month before his election or re¬ 
jection is decided. This must be by ballot, and if 
even one black ball be thrown into the urn the can¬ 
didate cannot be admitted. This rule in the olden 
time was, like the Median and Persian laws, never 
infringed ; perhaps it is not now; but the present 
members of the club are not so rigid as to the cha¬ 
racter, quality, and fortune of candidates, as their 
fathers were. Twenty years ago the club was select 
and by no means numerous ; a citizen or merchant 
could seldom or never obtain admission ; and wealth 
alone, without high blood or transcendant talent, was 
generally excluded. 

Within a few late years, the number of members 
has been extended to fifteen hundred; consequently, 
wealth, or a seat in the opposition, has been a pretty 
certain passport for admission. Election by ballot, 
however, still continues, and the only person who 
ever became a member without this ceremony was 






16 THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 

his present Majesty, then Prince of Wales. His Royal 
Highness entered the club in order to have more fre¬ 
quent intercourse with Mr. Fox ; and, on his first 
appearance, every member got up and welcomed him 
by acclamation.—But to return to the subject of the 
present anecdote. 

When Fox first became acquainted with Mr. Sheri¬ 
dan he was so delighted with his company and bril¬ 
liant conversation, that he became extremely anxi¬ 
ous to get him admitted as a member of Brookes’s 
club, which he himself was in the habit of frequent¬ 
ing every night. Sheridan was accordingly proposed, 
and though, on several occasions, every gentleman 
was earnestly canvassed to vote for him, yet he was 
sure to have one black ball whenever he was ballot¬ 
ed for, which was of course sufficient to disqualify 
him. 

This was carried on for many months, and it was at 
length resolved on by his friends to find out who the 
person was that so inveterately opposed the admission 
of the orator. Accordingly, the balls were marked , 
and old George Selwyn, (whose aristocratic prejudi¬ 
ces would have induced him to blackball his Majesty 
himself, if he could not produce proofs of noble de¬ 
scent for three generations at least,) was discovered 
to be the hostile party. This circumstance was told 
the same evening to Mr. Sheridan, who desired that 
his name might be put up again as usual, and begged 
that the farther conduct of the matter might be left to 
himself. 

Accordingly, on the next evening, when he was to 
be balloted for, Sheridan arrived at Brookes’s, arm-in¬ 
arm with the Prince of Wales, just ten minutes be* 


SHERIDAN AT BROOKEs’s. 


17 


fore the balloting began. Being shown into the candi¬ 
dates’ waiting-room, the waiter was ordered to tell 
Mr. Selwyn that the Prince desired to speak with him 
in the room below-stairs immediately. Selwyn obey¬ 
ed the summons without delay; and Sheridan, to 
whom, by the by, he had no personal dislike, enter¬ 
tained him for half-an-hour with a political story, 
which interested him very much, but which, of course, 
had no foundation in truth. 

During Selwyn’s absence, the balloting went on, 
and Sheridan was chosen ; which circumstance was 
announced to himself and the Prince by the entrance 
of the waiter, who made the preconcerted signal, by 
stroking his chin with his hand. Sheridan immedi¬ 
ately got up, and apologizing for an absence of a few 
minutes, told Mr. Selwyn, “ that the Prince would 
finish the narrative, the catastrophe of which he would 
find very remarkable.” 

He now made his way up-stairs, and his name be¬ 
ing sent in to Mr. Fox, the latter came out, took him 
by the hand, and introduced him with all due formal¬ 
ity to the Club; all the members of which welcomed 
him, by shaking hands, and with the most flattering 
compliments.—Sheridan was now in his glory ! 

The Prince, in the mean time, was left in no en¬ 
viable situation; for, he had not the least idea of be¬ 
ing left to conclude a story, the thread of which (if 
it had a thread) he had entirely forgotten ; or which, 
perhaps, his eagerness to serve Sheridan’s cause, pre¬ 
vented him from listening to, with sufficient atten¬ 
tion, to take up where Sheridan had dropped it. Still, 
by means of his auditor’s occasional assistance in the 
way of prompting, he contrived, with a great deal o> 

b 2 



18 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


humming and hawing, to get on pretty well for a few 
minutes, when a question from old Selwyn, as to the 
flat contradiction of a part of his Royal Highness’s 
story to that of Sheridan, completely pozed him, and 
he stuck fast. 

Haying endeavoured to set himself right by floun¬ 
dering about a good deal, and finding that it was all 
labour in vain, the Prince at length burst out into a 
loud laugh at the ludicrous figure which he cut, and 

exclaimed, “D-n the fellow! to leave me to finish 

his infernal story, of which I know as much as the 
child unborn ! Rut never mind, Selwyn, as Sherry 
does not seem inclined to come back, let us go up 
stairs, and I dare say Fox, or some of them, will be 
able to tell you all about it.” 

They accordingly adjourned to the Club Room, and 
old George, who did not know what to make of the 
matter, had his eyes completely opened to the whole 
manoeuvre, when on his entrance, Sheridan rising, 
made him a low bow, and thus addressed him,—“ ’Pon 
my honour, Mr. Selwyn, I beg pardon for being absent 
so long ; but the fact is, I happened to drop into devil¬ 
ish good company:—they have just been making me a 
member, without even one black ball , and here I 
am.” 

“The devil they have!” exclaimed George. 

“Facts speak for themselves,” replied Sheridan, 
“and as I know you are very glad of my election, 
accept my grateful thanks {pressing his hand on his 
breast and bowing very low ) for your friendly suf- 
frage. And now, if you will sit down by me, I’ll 
finish my story; for I dare say his Royal Highness 



SHERIDAN AT BROOIvEs’s. 19 

has found considerable difficulty in doing justice to its 
merits.” 

“ Your story! it’s all a lie from beginning to end!” 
screamed outSelwyn, amidst immoderate fits of laugh¬ 
ter from all parts of the room. 

The old man now sat down, growling, at the near¬ 
est whist table; but, in a short time, he could not 
help joining in the peals of mirth which were occa¬ 
sioned by the trick that had been played him ; and 
before the evening was over, he shook hands with 
Sheridan, and kindly bade him welcome. 

Poor Sheridan remained many years a member, and 
was the delight of all. He paid his subscription, it is 
true:—that is, twenty guineas the first year, and 
twelve every succeeding one ;—but his account with 
the house was, alas! like all his other debts, continu¬ 
ally on the increase. When he was turned out of of¬ 
fice, the partners who managed the concerns of the 
club, seeing no chance of their claim being ever can¬ 
celled, would fain have 'Dismembered him ; but his fas¬ 
cinating conversation had made him so many friends , 
that it was more than they dared to refuse him a bot¬ 
tle when he called for it; or to forget to lay a knife 
and fork for him, when the members chose to dine 
together on grand occasions. 

There is no doubt but Sheridan would have paid all 
his debts if it lay within his power to do so; but his 
wishes on that score, compared with his well-known 
want of economy, were like Paine’s simile of Mr. 
Pitt’s theory of Finance: viz. that the power of the 
Sinking Fund to redeem the national debt was like 
that of a man with a wooden leg , trying to overtake 
a hare :—the longer he ran, the farther he was behind! 


20 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


Mr. Sheridan was sufficiently sensible that some apo¬ 
logy, or “promise to pay,” was due to the proprie¬ 
tors ; and he never failed, on proper occasions, to 
amuse them with flattering prospects of the future. In 
these, he deceived himself more than those whom he 
attempted to cajole; still, he was at all times a wel¬ 
come guest at Brookes’s ; for the gentlemen above 
alluded to, continued to grant that with a good grace, 
which they could not refuse nor withdraw without 
considerable offence to the oldest and most respected 
members. 



FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


21 


11 . , 

FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 

Whilst on the subject of sinister admission to the 
club, the writer cannot do better than relate the very 
singular and whimsical manner in which Mr. George 
Robert Fitzgerald forced his way into Brookes’s. 
This personage, it is well known', though nearly re¬ 
lated to one of the first families in Ireland, ( Leinster ,) 
was publicly executed in the } T ear 17SG, fora murder 
which he had coolly premeditated ; and which he and 
others had perpetrated in a most cruel and cowardly 
manner. 

The fame, or rather infamy, which encircled his 
brows, from having been the surviver in a great many 
duels, became, at length, the cause of the most fero¬ 
cious haughtiness; and greatly increased his overbear¬ 
ing and quarrelsome disposition. His duelling pro¬ 
pensities, however, kept him out of all the first clubs 
in London, and rendered him at once, both an object 
of terror and of hatred ; and even when he was intro¬ 
duced at the-Court of France, where single combat 
was not so much reprehended as in Great Britain, the 
young Monarch, (the unfortunate Louis XVI.,) could 
not help showing his abhorrence of a professed duel- 
list, by uttering a most deserved sarcasm on Fitzger¬ 
ald, and by refusing to admit him a second time to his 
levee. 





22 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


The gentleman who introduced him (the English 
Ambassador,) having said, “I have the honour to in¬ 
troduce to your Majesty, Mr. Fitzgerald, an Irishman 
of high descent; who, in his time, has successfully 
fought no less than eighteen duels, and always killed, 
his man the King replied, u Monsieur L’Ambassa- 
deur, I have read your famous English history of Jack 
the Giant Killer ; and I think, it may be greatly im¬ 
proved by adding this Irishman's life by way of ap¬ 
pendix.—Let him retire !” His Majesty further ob¬ 
served to the Ambassador, in the duellist’s heari 
that if Mr. Fitzgerald showed a disposition to quarrel 
with any of his subjects, he should order him to quit 
France in twenty-four hours. 

But, *o avoid further digression, the writer has to 
state, that Fitzgerald having once applied to Admi¬ 
ral Keith Stewart to propose him as a candidate for 
Brookes’s, the worthy admiral well knowing, that he 
must either fight or comply with his request, chose 
the latter alternative. Accordingly, on the night in 
which the balloting was to take place, (which was only 
a mere form in this case ; for even Keith Stewart him¬ 
self had resolved to blackball him,) the duellist accom¬ 
panied the gallant admiral to St. James’s-street, and 
waited in the room below, whilst the suffrages were 
taking, in order to know the issue. 

The ballot was soon over; for without hesitation, 
each member threw in a black ball; and when the scru¬ 
tiny took place, the company were not a little amazed, 
to find not even one white one among the number : 
however, the point of rejection being carried nem. con., 
the grand affair now was, as to which of the members 
had the hardihood to announce the same to the expect- 



FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


23 


aht candidate. No one would undertake the office, for 
the announcement was sure to produce a challenge; and 
a duel with Fighting Fitzgerald had in almost every 
case been fatal to his opponent. The general opinion, 
however, was, that the proposer, Admiral Stewart, 
should convey the intelligence, and that in as polite 
terms as possible; but the Admiral, who was certainly, 
on all proper occasions, a very gallant officer, was not 
inclined to go on any such embassy. 

“No, gentlemen,” said he ; “I proposed the fellow 
because I knew you would not admit him; but, by 
G—d, I have no inclination to risk my life against that 
of a madman.” 

“But, Admiral,” replied the Duke of Devonshire, 
“there being no white ball in the box, he must know, 
that you have blackballed him as well as the rest, and 
he is sure to call you out, at all events.” 

This was a poser for the poor Admiral, who sat si¬ 
lent for a few seconds, amidst the half-suppressed tit¬ 
ter of the members. At length, joining in the laugh 
against himself, he exclaimed, “Upon my soul! a plea¬ 
sant job I ’ve got into. D—n the fellow !—No matter! 
—I won’t go :—let the waiter tell him, that there was 
one black ball, and that his name must be put up again 
if he wishes it.” 

This plan appeared so judicious, that all concurred 
in its propriety. Accordingly, the waiter was in a few 
minutes after despatched on the mission. 

In the mean time, Mr. Fitzgerald showed evident 
symptoms of impatience at being kept so long from his 
“dear friends” above-stairs; and frequently rang the 
bell, to know the state of the poll. On the first occa¬ 
sion, he thus addressed the waiter who answered his 



24 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


summons: “Come here, my tight little fellow ; do you 
know if I am chose yet?” 

“I really can’t say, Sir,” replied the young man—• 
“but I ’ll see.*’ 

“There’s a nice little man : be quick d’ ye see; and 
I ’ll give ye sixpence when ye come with the good 
news. 

Away went the little man ; but he was in no hurry 
to come back : for he, as well as his fellows, were suf¬ 
ficiently aware of Fitzgerald’s violent temper, and 
wished to come in contact with him as seldom as pos¬ 
sible. 

The bell rang again—and to another waiter* the im¬ 
patient candidate put the same question : “Am I chose 
yet, wait her?” 

“The balloting isnot over yet, Sir,” replied the man. 

“Not over yet!” exclaimed Fitzgerald; “but sure, 
there is no use of balloting at all, when my dear friends 
are all unanimous for me to come in. Run, my man, 
and let me know how they are getting on.” 

After the lapse of another quarter of an hour, the 
bell was rung so violently as to produce a contest among 
the poor servants, as to whose turn it was next to visit 
the lion in his den I and Mr. Brookes, seeing no alter¬ 
native but resolution, took the message from the wait¬ 
er, who was descending the staircase, and boldly en¬ 
tered the room with a coffee-equipage in his hand.— 
“Did you call for coffee, Sir?” said Mr. Brookes 
smartly. 

“D—n your coffee, Sur! and you too:” answered 
Mr. Fitzgerald, in a voice which made the host’s blood 
curdle in his veins.—“I want to know, Sur, and that 
without one moment’s delay, Sur, if I’m chose yet ?” 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


25 


u 0h, Sir!” replied Mr. Brookes, who trembled 
from head to loot, but attempted to smile away the ap¬ 
pearance of fear: “I beg your pardon, Sir; but I was 
just coming to announce to you, Sir,—with Admiral 
Stewart’s compliments, Sir,—that unfortunately, there 
was one black ball in the box, Sir: and consequently 
by the rules of the club, Sir, no candidate can be ad¬ 
mitted without a new election, Sir;—which cannot 
take place by the standing regulations of the Club, Sir 
—until one month from this time, Sir \” 

During this address, Fitzgerald’s irascibility appear¬ 
ed to undergo considerable mollification; and, at its 
conclusion, the terrified landlord was not a little sur¬ 
prised and pleased to find his guest shake him by the 
hand, which he squeezed heartily between his own 
two, saying, “ My dear Mr. Brookes, I’m chose ! and 
I give ye much joy ; for I’ll warrant ye’ll find me the 
best customer in your house ! but there must be a small 
matter of a mistake in my election; and as I should 
not wish to be so ungenteel as to take my sate among 
my dear friends above-stairs, until that mistake is duly 
rectified, you’ll just step up and make my compliments 
to the gentlemen, and say, as it is only a mistake of one 
black ball, they will be so good as to waive all ceremony 
on my account, and proceed to re-elect their humble 
servant without any more delay at all; so now, my 
dear Mr. Brookes, you may put down the coffee, and 
I’ll be drinking it while the new election is going on !” 

Away went Mr. Brookes, glad enough to escape 
with whole bones, for this time at least. On announc¬ 
ing the purport of his errand to the assembly above¬ 
stairs, many of the members were panic-struck, for 
they clearly foresaw that some disagreeable circum- 
vol. i. c 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


26 

stance was likely to be the finale of the farce which 
they had been playing. Mr. Brookes stood silent for 
some minutes, waiting for an answer, whilst several of 
the members, whispered and laughed in groups at the 
ludicrous figure which they all cut. At length, the 
Earl of March (afterwards Duke of Queensbury) said 
aloud, “Try the effect of two black balls : d—n his 
Irish impudence, if two balls don't take effect upon him, 
I don’t know what will.” This proposition met with 
unanimous approbation, and Mr. Brookes was ordered 
to communicate accordingly. 

On re-entering the waiting-room, Mr. Fitzgerald 
rose hastily from his chair, and seizing him by the 
hand, eagerly inquired, “Have they elected me right, 
now, Mr. Brookes ?” 

“I hope no offence, Mr. Fitzgerald,” said the land¬ 
lord; “but I am sorry to inform you that the result 
of the second balloting is—that two black balls were 
dropped in, Sir.” 

“By J-s, then,” exclaimed Fitzgerald, “there’s 

now two mistakes instead of one. Go back, my dear 
friend, and tell the honourable members that it is a 
very uncivil thing to keep a gentleman waiting below 
stairs, with no one to keep him company but himself, 
whilst they are enjoying themselves with their cham- 
paigne, and their cards, and their tokay, up above. 
Tell them to try again, and I hope they will have bet¬ 
ter luck this time, and make no more mistakes, be¬ 
cause it’s getting late, and I won’t be chose to-night at 
all. So, now, Mr. Brookes, be off with yourself, and 
lave the door open till I see what despatch you make.” 

Away went Mr. Brookes, for the last time. On 
announcing his unwelcome errand, every one saw that 



FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


27 


palliative measures only prolonged the dilemma ; and 
General Fitzpatrick proposed that Brookes should tell 
him, “ His cause was hopeless, for that he was black¬ 
balled all over , from head to foot, and it was hoped 
by all the members that Mr. Fitzgerald would not 
persist in thrusting himself into society where his com¬ 
pany was declined.” 

This message, it was generally believed, would prove 
a sickener, as it certainly would have done to any oth¬ 
er candidate under similar circumstances. Not so, 
however, to Fitzgerald, who no sooner heard the pur¬ 
port of it, than he exclaimed, “Oh, I perceive it is a 
mistake altogether , Mr. Brookes, and I must see to 
the rectifying of it myself; there J s nothing like dating 
with principals ; and so I ’ll step up at once and pul 
this thing to rights, without any more unnecessary 
delay.” 

In spite of Mr. Brookes’s remonstrance that his en¬ 
trance into the Club-room was against all rule and 
etiquette, Fitzgerald found his way up stairs, threaten¬ 
ing to throw the landlord over the banisters for en¬ 
deavouring to stop him. He entered the room with¬ 
out any further ceremony than a bow ; saying to the 
members, who indignantly rose up at this most unex¬ 
pected intrusion, “ Your servant, Gentlemen ! I beg 
ye will be sated.” 

Walking up to the fire-place, he thus addressed Ad¬ 
miral Stewart:—“ So, my dear Admiral, Mr. Brookes 
informs me that I have been elected three times.” 

“You have been balloted for, Mr. Fitzgerald, but 
I am sorry to say you have not been chosen,” said 
Stewart. 

“ Well, then,” replied the duellist, “did you black¬ 
ball me ?” 


28 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“My good Sir,” answered the Admiral, “how 
could you suppose such a thing?” 

“ Oh, I supposed no such tiling, my dear fellow, I 
only want to know who it was that dropped the black 
balls in by accident, as it were,” 

Fitzgerald now went up to each individual member, 
and put the same question seriatim , “ Did you black¬ 
ball me, Sur ?” until he made the round of the whole 
club ; and it may well be supposed, that in every case 
he obtained similar answers to that of the Admiral. 
When he had finished his inquisition, he thus address¬ 
ed the whole body, who preserved as dead and dread 
a silence as the urchins at a parish school do on a Sa¬ 
turday, when the pedagogue orders half a score ol them 
to be horsed for neglecting their catechism, which 
they have to repeat to the parson on Sunday :—“You 
see, gentlemen, that as none of ye have black-balled 
me, I must he chose ; and it is Misthur Brookes that 
has made the mistake. But I was convinced of it 
from the beginning, and I am only sorry that so much 
time has been lost as to prevent honourable gentlemen 
from enjoying each other’s good company sooner. 
fVaitker! —come here you rasfcol , and bring me a 
bottle of champaigne, till I drink long life to the club, 
and wish them joy of their unanimous election of a 
rael gentleman by father and mother, and——” This 
part of Fitzgerald’s address excited the risible muscles 
of every one present, but he soon restored them to 
their former lugubrious position, by casting around 
him a ferocious look, and saying in a voice of thunder, 
—“ and who never missed his man l —Go for the 
champaigne, Waither; and d’ye hear, Sur, tell your 
Masthur , Misthur Brookes that is, not to make any 



FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


29 


more mistakes about black balls ; for though it is be¬ 
low a gentleman to call him out, I will find other manes 
of giving him a bagfull of broken bones !” 

The members now saw that there was nothing for 
it but to send the intruder to Coventry, which they 
appeared to do by tacit agreement; for, when Admi¬ 
ral Stewart departed, which he did almost immediate¬ 
ly, Mr. Fitzgerald found himself completely cut by 
all “his dear friends.” The gentlemen now formed 
themselves into groups at the several whist tables ; 
and no one chose to reply to his observations, nor to 
return even a nod to the toasts and healths which he 
drank whilst discussing three bottles of the sparkling 
liquor, which the terrified waiter placed before him, 
in succession. At length, finding that no one would 
communicate with him in either kind ,—either for 
drinking or for fighting,—he arose, and making a low 
bow, took his leave as follows :— 

“Gentlemen, I bid you all good night; I am very 
glad to find ye so sociable; 1’ll take care to come 
earlier next night, and we ’ll have a little more of it, 
plase G—d.” 

The departure of this bully was a great relief to 
every one present; for, the restraint caused by his 
vapouring and insolent behaviour was most intolerable. 
The conversation immediately became general, and it 
was unanimously agreed that half a dozen stout con¬ 
stables should be in waiting the next evening to lay 
him by the heels and bear him off to the watch-house, 
if he attempted again to intrude. Of some such mea¬ 
sure Fitzgerald seemed to be aware, for he never show¬ 
ed himself at Brookes’s again, though he boasted eve- 

e 2 



30 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


ry where that he had been unanimously chosen a mem¬ 
ber of the club ! 

The writer trusts that none of his readers are im¬ 
pressed with the idea, that want of personal courage 
on the part of any member, contributed in the small¬ 
est degree to prevent Fitzgerald from being kicked 
out of a society into which he had so unwarrantably 
thrust himself: more particularly when he considers 
that the whole affair was so eccentric as to create mirth 
rather than a desire to inflict chastisement and that 
many, particularly the junior members, had no small 
curiosity to witness the termination of an adventure 
so impudently and so ludicrously carried on. But, 
these considerations apart, it is not to be supposed that 
men whose courage, on ordinary occasions, might ea¬ 
sily be “ screwed up to the sticking point,” should be 
very ready, as Admiral Stewart expressed it, 66 to risk 
their lives against that of a madman.” Moreover, in 
addition to the well-founded and rational dislike which 
many men have to duelling, family considerations, 
and a natural love of life, were sufficient to deter any 
man of sense from encountering the fighting Fitzger ~ 
aid , either with sword or pistol ; for, being a really 
good swordsman and marksman, and being accounted 
almost invulnerable in his own person, the result of 
a combat with him ceased to be an affair of chance, but 
amounted to a dead certainty. Is it surprising then, 
that no gentleman should have had the hardihood to 
espouse the cause of ally by throwing away his own 
life on the desperate chance of overcoming a profess¬ 
ed bully ? 

Those readers who are not aware of other particulars 
in Mr. Fitzgerald’s history, will express their won- 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


31 


tier at his extraordinary success as a duellist; and 
that too, not so much from his prowess, as that he 
should so constantly have escaped , almost without a 
hurt /—Could this enigma have been explained in the 
early part of his career, his name would not have con¬ 
veyed so much terror to the hearts of those who had 
the misfortune to fall into his company. 

George Robert Fitzgerald has been compared to 
Lord Camelford ; but there is no possible resemblance, 
for though the latter fought several duels, it is well 
known that he generally had sufficient provocation, 
and that he received many insults which he never 
thought worthy of public notice : in short, his general 
deportment was mild, and he never sought a quarrel ; 
for which Fitzgerald was on the constant look-out.— 
Camelford, likewise, had a most generous heart; for, 
whilst the attention of the fashionable world was taken 
up with his eccentricities, he was in the habit of per¬ 
forming many private charitable acts among those of 
the poor who were ashamed to beg. His charities 
were invariably administered under an assumed name ; 
and he never failed to threaten those whose curiosity 
he suspected, with a suspension of their salary, if they 
dared to follow him, or tried to find out who their bene¬ 
factor was. 

He usually went on such expeditions at night; and 
he has often left a crowded and brilliant assembly, to 
dress himself in an old brown coat and slouched hat, 
in order to visit some poor family in the crowded 
courts between Drury Lane and Charing Cross. In 
such deeds as these, and at an expense of several thou¬ 
sands a year, did this unaffected philanthropist pass 
the hours which he stole from the dissipation of high 


32 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


life ; and his protegees were not aware of the name or 
quality of their benefactor, until his untimely fate put 
a period to his munificent donations. 

That Mr. Fitzgerald (unlike his countrymen, gen¬ 
erally,) was totally devoid of generosity, no one who 
ever knew him will doubt; therefore, there is no point 
of resemblance between him and the nobleman above 
mentioned—not even in the mode of meeting his an¬ 
tagonist.—Camelford came into the field with all parts 
of his person equally exposed , and really braved death: 
—indeed it is an insult to his memory, to mention 
them together. Fitzgerald on all such occasions had 
his chest, &c. cased in a steel cuirass , as the follow¬ 
ing circumstance will prove :—it will at the same time 
sufficiently account for his extraordinary success. 

He once provoked a gentleman, (Major Cunning¬ 
ham, an old friend of the writer’s,) to fight him. The 
weapon agreed on was the small sword ; and both par¬ 
ties, for some time, appeared to be well-matched : at 
length, a judiciously aimed thrust at Fitzgerald’s breast 
would have laid him upon the turf, had not the Ma¬ 
jor’s sword bent round and snapped in two, near the 
middle, owing to the point striking forcibly against a 
polished hard surface. Enraged at such a dishonour¬ 
able and cowardly resource, Cunningham pulled off 
his hat, and flinging it with all his might in Fitzger¬ 
ald’s face, exclaimed, “You infernal rascal !—so, this 
is the way in which you have been enabled to over¬ 
come so many brave men : but I shall take care that 
you fight no more duels ! Cowardly dog !” As he 
uttered the last words, he rushed towards him, in or¬ 
der to despatch him with the remaining part of the 
sword which he still held in his hand ; but Fitzgerald 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


33 


turning round, took to his heels with all his might, 
and, running across several fields, took shelter in a 
farm house. His opponent eagerly pursued him, fol¬ 
lowed by the amazed seconds, who could by no means 
comprehend the cause of this mysterious chase. 

When they arrived at the cottage, the gentlemen 
mounted the stairs, and searched all around for several 
minutes, but the redoubted hero was no where to be 
found : he had escaped by jumping out of a back win¬ 
dow, at the very instant his antagonist had entered 
the house.* 

Soon after this occurrence, Fitzgerald fell a victim 
to his ferocious disposition, and perished by the hands 
of a common hangman. In his wardrobe, after his 
death, were found several cuirasses , constructed of 
iron or steel plates, lined with flannel : and several of 
his coats, &c. were found to be what is technically 
termed papered; that is, wadded and quilted with 
sheets of that material. Thus, the whole conduct of 
his life confirms the opinion of a celebrated philoso¬ 
pher, “ That whatever may be the physical strength 
of a bully, he has no moral courage ; for, however 
fierce his demeanour, he is surely a coward at heart.” 

* The probability of this account has been questioned in a popu¬ 
lar Weekly Journal : the writer, however, assures the public that it 
is strictly and circumstantially true ; for which reason he has insert¬ 
ed the name of Fitzgerald’s antagonist. As to the fact of Fitzger¬ 
ald’s taking to his heels when Cunningham’s sword was broken, 
that is easily accounted for by the shame of detection in his unfair 
and ungentlemanly practices. 



34 


THE CLUES OP LONDON. 


HI. 

NOCTES FOXIANiE.—No. I. ' . 

Not only as the leader of Opposition, but likewise 
as a philosopher, a bon vivant, and a wit of the first 
order, was Mr. Fox esteemed by every gentleman who 
frequented Brookes’s. His acuteness of observation, 
profundity of thought, and extensive knowledge of al¬ 
most every subject, joined to his courteous and affable 
deportment, rendered him the revered oracle of the 
Club. The greatest deference was at all times paid to his 
opinions; and he himself was held in such general re¬ 
spect, that his presence often acted as a check to the 
occasional ebullitions of levity on the part of the juni¬ 
or members: so much, indeed, was this great statesman 
held in consideration, that though he had married the 
well-known Mrs. Armstead, respecting whom their 
remarks previously had often been pretty free; still, 
after that lady became Mrs. Fox, no man ever opened 
his mouth respecting her, even with the most qualified 
censure; nor did they even allude to the former pas¬ 
sages of her life :—by becoming the wife of this illus¬ 
trious man, her character became sacred. 

Mr. Fox’s conversation was on all occasions a great 

© 

treat; for he displayed so much political sagacity and 
benevolent feeling in his observations, that, like those 
of the philosophers of old, they were listened to with 
grateful attention by all who could conveniently obtain 


NOCTES FOXIANJEi 


35 


a seat near him. The Prince of Wales was his favour¬ 
ite pupil ; and to him were directed many useful and 
important observations on the duties of a sovereign, 
and the rights of a free people. 

Brought up, as it were, at the “feet of Gamaliel,” 
the Prince enjoyed opportunities of imbibing instruc¬ 
tion that fall to the lot of very few. During his fa¬ 
ther’s reign, or rather until the Regency, being without 
an) T public employment, he had no means of display¬ 
ing his talents or acquirements ; and, unfortunately, 
at that period the existing ministry took care that the 
grand condition for intrusting him with power, should 
be, that, from that moment, he would withdraw him¬ 
self totally from the Whigs, and implicitly submit him¬ 
self to their own direction, where direction should be 
thought necessary. This was the true cause of the 
appearance of ingratitude to his quondam friends and 
associates, on the part of an otherwise amiable man; 
and that he has always been so, every one who has had 
an opportunity of witnessing his actions in private life, 
can amply and conscientiously testify. 

Of such conversations as are above mentioned, the 
reader shall now be presented with a specimen, and 
they shall be continued occasionally during the pro¬ 
gress of this work. 

POLITICAL PROPHECIES. 

The novel and surprising circumstances which ever} 
day transpired during the early years of the French 
Revolution, formed the interesting and common theme 
of conversation in every political circle ; and, of course, 
at Brookes’s, the earliest intelligence of fresh events 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


•-if 




was anxiously listened to by each member, and duly 
commented on, according to his particular views. 
Whilst the French were engaged in bursting the fet¬ 
ters of feudal tyranny which had bound them forages ; 
when they levelled the Bastille, and put an end to 
the infamous Lettrcs de Cachet; and when they pub¬ 
lished their glorious Constitution of 1789, the heart and 
hand of every liberal Englishman responded sympathy 
nd applause: but when they insulted, dethroned, and 
decapitated their Sovereign,—whilst faction after fac¬ 
tion spread terror, death, and ruin, throughout the 
kingdom;—when the angel of desolation, who first 
personated, and then treacherously destroyed the god¬ 
dess Liberty !—drunk, but not satiated, with the blood 
of her numerous victims, threw off the mask;—when 
this democratic fiend exhibited, to the terrified nations 
of Europe, her disgusting and horrid aspect in all its 
native deformity ;—when, attired in a red night-cap, 
and in the ragged and filthy garb of a poisscirde , she 
discarded even the ajipearance of decency and human¬ 
ity :—when, thus accoutred, and armed with the still 
reeking axe of the guillotine, she expanded her pestifer¬ 
ous wings, and threatened a flight into the British Isles, 
—many of the friends of the Revolution recoiled with 
dread and horror, and with one voice reprobated that 
which they had once so much admired. 

No one felt more keen disappointment at the terri¬ 
ble re-action which took place in France, than Mr. Fox. 
“The Tree of Liberty,” he $aid, more than once, 
“ has been graft ed on that of despotism ; and bitter and 
unnatural is the fruit that has been produced :—the 
soil, I fear, is not congenial to its growth; for, as Vol¬ 
taire said of his countrymen, they combine the feroci- 



NOCTES FOXIANiE. 


37 


ty oi the tiger with the mischievousness of the mon¬ 
key. The French have been so long sunk in the abyss 
of misery, as to be rendered incapable of enjoying true 
liberty.” 

When the news of the stoppage and capture of Lou¬ 
is XVI. at Varenncs, arrived in London, universal 
consternation was spread among those who had fondly 
lioped that he had escaped the toils of his turbulent 
enemies, by passing the frontier. Mr. Fox was one 
of those ; not that he wished the French king to be¬ 
come a rallying point to the emigrants, who were 
ready to invade their native country at the head of an 
army of foreigners, and to bring back the ancient or¬ 
der of things; but he felt pleased, that this good-na¬ 
tured, weak, and unfortunate monarch should thus 
have his life and liberty ensured; of which, whilst he 
remained in his own country, he was not certain for 
one moment. 

“The die is cast,” he exclaimed, when he heard of 
the capture:—“the King of France is a prisoner in 
the hands of his own subjects, and they will soon 
bring him to the block ! Ah ! poor King ! Little did 
you think, whilst you were assisting the Americans to 
break their chains,—which pressed but lightly after 
all,—that you were forging fetters, from which you 
yourself will be freed only by death. The blow which 
you gave us in our colonies, now recoils upon your¬ 
self; for, your subjects, in fighting for the liberty of 
foreigners, have learned to appreciate its value to them¬ 
selves.—Where it will end, God only knows !” 

“But, Sir,” said a gentleman present, “the French 
will not surely put Louis to death ?” 

“As surely,” replied Fox, “as our fanatical Parli- 

VOL. I. D 









3S 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


ament took off the head of Charles. The King of 
France has already rendered himself contemptible to 
the powerful party by his concessions; but this last 
act of flight, will cause his sincerity to be suspected by 
the whole nation ; so that, all future compliances will 
be considered as mere subterfuge until he can again es¬ 
cape and return with a powerful army to reduce them 
to obedience. He is now without even the shadow of 
power—a prisoner in his own kingdom ; and his ene¬ 
mies only wait a fit opportunity for bringing him to 
trial and execution.” 

“But if they even put him to death,” observed 
a royal Duke, “the Dauphin must succeed to the 
throne ?” 

“By no means a necessary consequence under the 
new system,” replied Mr. Fox; “for, however the 
succession may be secured by law, as it stands at pre¬ 
sent, the National Assembly have it in their power to 
alter or abrogate that law, as they may think fit, for 
what they will term the common weal, I think it 
not at all unlikely, from the sentiments so frequently 
uttered in the Assembly, and from the wide dissemina¬ 
tion of the Declaration of Rights and other democratic 
writings throughout the kingdom, that France will 
soon be voted a Republic; and some bold fellow, or 
rather some intriguer, like Orleans, will become Dicta¬ 
tor. This state of things, however, cannot last long, 
for the French are not republicans they are too 
numerous, too volatile. They possess neither the gra¬ 
vity and calculating spirit of the Dutch, nor the patience 
and industry of the Americans.” 

“But, what accusation,” said the Prince, “can they 
bring forward so formidable as to warrant them in put- 


NOCTES F0XIAN2E. 39 

ting him to death;—or even in bringing him to trial 
at all?” 

“ Louis,” replied Mr. Fox, “will no doubt be ac¬ 
cused of treasonable correspondence with the emigrant 
Princes; and, if this be supported by proof, nothing 
can save him. But, even if it should not, his ene¬ 
mies will not hesitate to get rid of him and the whole 
of his family, by poison or by the dagger.” 

“ But why, Sir,” continued the Prince, “ do you 
apprehend his death to be inevitable, seeing that he 
has only done what many others would have done in 
his situation ?” 

“It is not the mere act of running away,” replied 
Mr. Fox; “but that, now, all confidence between him 
and the rest of the government and nation is destroyed. 
Having it in his power now to give no pledge that 
will secure pardon for the insults and violence that 
have been offered to him, the democratic faction will 
see that there is no safety for them but in the extinc¬ 
tion of his whole family. ” 

“But, may not imprisonment—?” 

“ No ! an imprisoned king is at all times an object 
of anxiety and dread, even to the most powerful rival; 
how much more so then must he be to these usurpers, 
each of whom already feels the waiter round his neck, 
or, like Damocles, sees the sword suspended over his 
head by a single hair?—Besides, the encampment of 
an invading army on their frontiers will only serve to 
seal, and perhaps hasten, the doom of the unfortunate 
monarch : for the whole nation is in a state of frenzy ; 
and, being threatened with punishment, they will do 
that in a fit of daring and desperation, at which, if left 
to themselves, they would perhaps hesitate.” 






40 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


‘‘Would not interference on the part of my fa¬ 
ther— ?” 

“These democrats,” returned Fox, shaking his 
head, “ are too proud to be advised by Kings ; besides, 
Louis, by having sworn to the New Constitution, gave 
them a power over him ; for he is thereby responsible 
to the nation for all his acts.” 

“ But supposing a remonstrance were made, and a 
sulficient guarantee offered?” 

“ I fear, Sir, it is too late,” replied Mr. Fox : “ had 
the King of France conducted himself at the outset 
with the wisdom and firmness due to his elevated sta¬ 
tion— had he gone , heart and hand , in the Revolu¬ 
tion•, as far as the reformation of abuses and the 
cutting up of the feudal , or rather seignorial , pri¬ 
vileges ; and there taken his stand , saying,—‘I am 
your constitutional King! thus far have I come, but I 
will advance no farther, nor ’bate one atom of my roy¬ 
al prerogative —had he said this, the French would 
have applauded their grande monarque to the skies, 
and he would have been the most powerful sovereign 
in Europe ;—whereas, by yielding every thing, he is 
now the weakest.” 

“But you must allow, Sir,” observed His Royal 
Highness, “ that events were against him.” 

“They certainly were,” returned Mr. Fox, “and 
neither he nor his ministers had sufficient ability or 
strength to stem the torrent of revolutionary lava that 
flowed so suddenly upon them from all quarters. The 
volcano has been labouring ever since the expensive 
wars of Louis XIV., and its throes are not yet over. 
Eruption after eruption will take place, until the moun¬ 
tain is exhausted, or nearly levelled with the surround* 


NOCTES FOXlANiE. 


41 


mg plain. France was divided between misery and 
splendour : the mass of the people toiled without re¬ 
muneration ; and the aristocracy and clergy became 
rich, powerful, and insolent, by extortion, by pillage, 
and by exemption from those taxes which pressed so 
heavily on the people. This exclusive system was 
unnatural, and the re-action must consequently be vi¬ 
olent,—until the energies of the nation are exhausted, 
or until the people shall begin to feel the benefit of the 
restoration of their rights. The time is gone by when 
a bone would have quieted the dog : he will now fight 
for the whole carcase.” 

“But, Sir, as it was impossible to foresee these 
events, how could the King or his counsellors have 
prevented them ?” 

“ It was very easy to see,” continued the statesman. 
“ that the unnatural state of things under the ancien 
regime could not last. It might easily have been fore¬ 
seen that the increasing misery of the people must, in 
the course of time, have had an end, either by general 
revolt or by general starvation : many of the people 
themselves foresaw it: the eyes of the nation were 
gradually opening by the writings of the philosophers 
of late years, but particularly by the American war; 
and they were prepared to assert their rights on the 
first opportunity that offered. But the Government 
put off the evil day as long as they could ; for they 
had no desire to clip the wings of the aristocracy, so 
long as the taxes were collected and the treasury well 
. supplied. 

“Not, however, that they were not well apprized 
that some great change must occur at some period not 
far distant. Even Louis XV. foresaw it, and his ob~ 

d 2 _ 




THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


‘U 

servation was, I am afraid, but too prophetic of pre¬ 
sent events. During the contests between the clergy 
and the Parliament, he came in one day to the Mar¬ 
chioness de Pompadour, in great irritation, saying, 
< These fellows drive me mad with their disputes ; and 
because I cannot please both parties, they would vent 
their rage upon me, if they dared: unless some mea¬ 
sures are projected and acted on, to curb their insolence,, 
they will cut off the head of my successor. ’ A Prin¬ 
cess, too, of the same family, had forebodings of some 
such catastrophe. When this modern Cassandra heard 
some officers who returned from America speak of a 
disorder, termed Influenza , which had raged through¬ 
out the French army,—which many of the soldiers had 
brought home with them,—and which, it was feared,, 
would prove contagious throughout the kingdom ; she 
said to one of them, 6 1 fear, General, that you and 
your troops have imported a disease of a still more 
contagious and terrific character, Independenza P 
“But even our own poet, Goldsmith, so far back 
as 1760, in his Chinese Letters, foretold the present 
Revolution in France. He says somewhere, that as 
the Swedes were making concealed approaches to des¬ 
potism , so the French on the other hand were daily 
and imperceptibly vindicating themselves into free¬ 
dom. ‘ When we consider/ says he, 4 that their Par¬ 
liaments, the members of which are created by the 
court, and the presidents acting by immediate direc¬ 
tion of the sovereign or minister;—when we consider 
that they presume even to mention privileges and 
freedom , and that till lately they received directions, 
from the throne with implicit humility ;—we cannot 
help fancying that the Genius of Freedom has entered 


NOCTES FOXIANiE. 


4.> 

that kingdom in disguise. If they have but three 
ivcalc monarchs successively on the throne , the mask 
will be laid aside, and France mill certainly be 
free. 9 ” * 

In accordance with the above sentiments, wherein 
Mr. Fox discriminated between licentiousness and lib¬ 
erty, he more than once, whilst advocating the cause 
of Reform in the House of Commons, reprobated the 
democratic writings of Paine and others. He was call¬ 
ed on to do this, for his own vindication from the 
insolent aspersions of Mr. Burke, who, after going 
over to the Ministry, attributed to him and his party 
the general disaffection to the Government which pre¬ 
vailed throughout the country. On one occasion, Mr. 
Fox went even farther, viz. at the Whig Club, some 
time in 1791. 

The apparently successful example of the French 
Revolution had set the whole kingdom in a ferment; 
and nothing short of altering the form of the govern¬ 
ment, seemed likely to content the democratic part of 
the public ; among whom, several names of considera¬ 
ble influence had been enrolled. Mr. Fox was alarm¬ 
ed ; for he by no means wished to go such lengths ; 
and he foresaw that even the question of reform itself 
was a dangerous subject to be agitated at this critical 
period. He therefore without compromising his prin¬ 
ciples, resolved to withdraw his sanction from their 
proceedings, which he did in the following words :— 
6 ‘ However warmly I may have wished and indeed 
still wish, for reform in the system of our representa- 

* The Earl of Chesterfield, likewise, who died in 1773, foretold 
that the French Monarchy would not last to the end of the eigh¬ 
teenth century. 


44 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


tion, I certainly do not agree with a considerable num¬ 
ber of my friends who have revived the question with 
such spirit and vigour at the present moment. Depend 
on it, gentlemen, this is not the proper season for agi¬ 
tating this important question. By striving for a part , 
now , we run the risk of losing the whole.” 

This candid avowal of his sentiments, however, did 
not add to Mr. Fox’s popularity : indeed, many of 
his auditors felt considerable offence at what they term¬ 
ed a desertion of the public cause, and a sort of depu¬ 
tation of three of them waited on him next day, to re¬ 
monstrate. 

He received them in his dressing-room, and in an¬ 
swer to their appeals to his former political professions, 
he said, u Gentlemen, I perceive that you are going 
far beyond the mark :—you wish for a revolution, and 
to establish some sort of republic, or God knows what 
sort of system,—/wish no such thing: and you have 
mistaken me entirely. But I have no time to discuss 
forms of government now ; for I am just going under 
the hands of the barber. Sit down, however ; you 
may amuse yourselves with a book whilst I am dress- 
ang.” 

He then directed his servant to go for a particular 
book, which, having opened, he presented to one of 
them, with a leaf folded down, saying :—“ There, Sir, 
read,—read pro bono publico: you will there find 
opinions on republicanism which I think you will al¬ 
low to be incontrovertible : they are the opinions of an 
excellent man and a sound constitutional lawyer,—« 
Delamere, Earl of Warrington. Although firmly at¬ 
tache^ to William the Third, he delivered that charge 


NOCTES FOXIANiE. 


45 


to the grand jury of Wiltshire, not long before the 
abdication of James the Second.” 

The gentleman read as follows :—“I am apt to be¬ 
lieve that those persons who are not contented with 
the government of England, have not considered aright 
what a commonwealth is. A commonwealth makes, 
a sound and shadow of liberty to the people, but in 
reality is but a monarchy under another name. For, 
if monarchy be tyranny under a single person, a com¬ 
monwealth is tyranny under several persons : as many 
persons that govern, so many tyrants ; but, let it be 
the best that can be, yet the people under any com¬ 
monwealth enjoy not that liberty which we do. 

“ Gentlemen, as the excellency of the English gov¬ 
ernment is an argument sufficient to dissuade any of 
us from the least attempt at alteration ; so, experience 
has taught us, that no sort of government but that 
under which we live , will suit or agree with England . 
Let us but consider the late troubles : how many se¬ 
veral kinds of government were then set up, one after 
another ! All ways were tried, but nothing would 
do, till we were returned to our old and ancient way.” 

"Well, Gentlemen,’” said Mr. Fox, “ what think 
you of that ? don’t you think that the Earl is in the 
right; and, that, instead of adopting the political the¬ 
ories of visionary schemers, we had not better stick to 
the natural and ancient orders of King, Lords, and 
Commons? Our Constitution is good, although some 
of the limbs and organs are rather out of repair ; we 
shall, at a fitting time, do all in our power to restore 
them to health and vigour ; but, in the present critical 
state of the patient, I deem it more than dangerous to 
attempt a remedy. When the time arrives, however. 





46 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


that we can administer a dose of Reform with safety, 
I shall be happy to join you—heart and hand. In the 
mean time, permit me to relate an anecdote which 
applies very well to the present business, and to all 
those who are desirous of pulling down the ancient fab¬ 
ric of our Constitution : 

44 In the year 1567, when the Scotch fanatics, head¬ 
ed by that arch-barbarian, John Knox, were desolating 
their country, by pulling down the cathedrals and mo¬ 
nasteries, and destroying the other institutions of their 
forefathers, they were stopped in their progress, or, 
rather, they were prevented from completing their 
work of destruction, by the sagacious remark of a 
simple countryman. This man, who was gardener to 
a neighbouring abbey or convent, happened to be in 
Glasgow when the mob were rushing towards the ca¬ 
thedral of that city and bellowing forth their usual 
war-cry of, 4 Pull clown the rooks' nests> and then 
the foul birds winna 7 come back; 7 which signified, 
that when the buildings were destroyed, the priests, 
who had fled in every direction, would have no tempta¬ 
tion to return at a future period. 

44 The gardener, having contrived to arrest their at¬ 
tention, thus addressed them :— 4 My friends, are ye 
all mad ?—Why would ye destroy the cathedral ? why 
pull down that fine building—the ornament of your 
city? Cannot you make it a house for serving God in 
your own way ? for I am sure it will cost you a great 
deal of money to build such another.’ 

44 The multitude looked at each other with surprise 
and shame, for their religious fervour had prevented 
such an idea from before entering their minds; they 
desisted, and having thanked the gardener by loud ac- 


NOCTES FOXIANiE. 


47 


clamations, returned quietly to their homes. The ca¬ 
thedral in question was the only one in Scotland that 
remained entire; and divine service is performed in 
it until the present day.—Oo ye, and do likewise.’ 

The deputies, convinced of Mr. Fox’s political 
honesty, thanked him for his plain-dealing, and de¬ 
parted. 





THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


48 


IV. 

NOCTES FOXIANiE.— No. II. 

ELOQUENCE. 

During the first years of Buonaparte’s career, as< 
General in Chief, and First Consul, it is well known 
that his proclamations to the army, his addresses to the 
conquered nations, and his bulletins to the Directory 
and Senate, excited the admiration of all who heard 
or read them. 

One of his greatest admirers was Mr. Fox, who, 
one day speaking of him, said, “ If we even shut our 
eyes on the martial deeds of this great man, we must 
allow that his eloquence alone has elevated the French 
people to a higher degree of civilization than any 
other nation in Europe—they have advanced a century 
during the last five years. Buonaparte combines the 
declamation of a Cicero with the soul-stirring 'philip¬ 
pics of a Demosthenes : he appeals to the head and 
the heart—to honour and to self-interest, at the same 
time. Had this wonderful man turned his attention to 
poetry instead of war, he would have beaten Homer 
out of the field. Whatever his manner of delivery 
may be, and I understand it is impressive, he is cer¬ 
tainly the greatest orator that the world ever produc¬ 
ed : the soaring grandeur of his conceptions is admi¬ 
rable, and his adaptation of the deeds and sayings of 


XOCTES FOXIANJE. 


49 


the heroes and statesmen of ancient times, to present 
circumstances, not only shows the extent of his read¬ 
ing and the correctness of his taste in their application; 
but also serves to assure the French people that he is 
as capable of governing, as he has proved himself to 
be in leading them forth to conquest. But it is in his 
power of simplification that he shines most: although 
as romantic as Ossian, he disdains all rhodomontade 
and circumlocution; and, by stripping his subject of 
all extraneous matter, he reduces the most complex 
proposition down to the laconic simplicity of a self- 
evident axiom.” 

Mr. Fox’s auditors assented to the above opinions, 
and several gentlemen quoted portions of such of the 
First Consul’s speeches as had appeared in the news¬ 
papers. One gentleman, however, contended that their 
construction was the work of art; and that true elo¬ 
quence consisted in the unsophisticated effusions of 
native genius, which, disdaining metaphor and all 
meretricious ornament, found its way to the heart, 
merely by the simple force of truth. Such was the 
oratory of savages—of persons who, though living in 
a state of nature, spoke with a pathos unattainable by 
men of education and civilized habits. u For example,” 
said he, “ who ever made so touching an appeal to the 
human heart as the American Indian, Logan, when, 
after describing the desolation which the English Col¬ 
onists had made in his family and kindred, he con¬ 
cludes with these words, ‘ Who is there to mourn for 
Logan ? Not one !—’ ”* 

* For the benefit of those readers who may not have read this 
celebrated speech, it is here subjoined.— 

“ i appeal to any white man to say, if ever he entered Logan-s 

VOL. I. E 



50 


THE CLUES OF LONDON. 


“I grant, Sir,’ 7 said Mr. Fox, “ that the speech to 
which you allude, is replete with pathos and simplici¬ 
ty ; as was the answer of the chief of another tribe, 
who, being attached to the soil of his ancestors, thus 
replied to the solicitations of some European commis¬ 
sioners who invited them to emigrate into their towns 
and cities : 4 How,’ said he, ‘ can ive say to the bones 
of our fathers, Arise! and go with us V But sava- 

cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat; if ever he came cold 
and naked, and he clothed him not. During the course of the last, 
long, and bloody war, Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advo¬ 
cate for peace. Such was his love for the Whites, that his coun¬ 
trymen pointed as they passed, and said, * Logan is the friend of 
white men.’ I had even thought to have lived with you, but for 
the injuries of one man. Colonel Cresap, the last Spring, in cold 
blood, and unprovoked, murdered all the relations of Logan not 
even sparing his women and children. There runs not a drop of 
my blood in the veins of any living creature. This called on me 
for revenge—I have sought it—I have killed many—I have fully 
glutted my vengeance. For my country, I rejoice at the beams of 
peace ; but, do not harbour a thought that mine is the joy of fear. 
Logan never felt fear. He will not turn on his heel to save his 
life.—Who is there to mourn for Logan ?—Not one!” 

It ought to be observed, that the authenticity of the above speech 
was called in question, many years ago, by an inhabitant of Phila¬ 
delphia, who addressed a letter to some of the American newspa¬ 
pers on the subject, and acknowledged himself to be a relative 
(son-in-law) to Colonel Cresap. It was natural that this man should 
be desirous to rescue the memory of his wife’s father from the 
damning immortality which Logan’s speech conferred upon it; but, 
in addition to the high authority of Mr. Jefferson, the late Presi¬ 
dent, in whose History of Virginia, and other Southern States, the 
narrative of Cresap’s inhuman massacre is to be found, it unfortu¬ 
nately happened for this defender of rapine and murder, that many 
persons throughout the United States, and particularly in the South, 
perlectly remembered the whole transaction.—It is singular,—dis¬ 
graceful,—that Cresap should have escaped punishment for a crime 
so dreadful and so notorious. 


NOCTES FOXIANiE. 


51 


ges, like the inhabitants of civilized countries, make 
use of such imagery as the beauties, the sublimities, 
or the phenomena and awful convulsions of nature, af¬ 
ford them. Of this, we have many instances on re¬ 
cord ; but one I particularly remember as delightfully 
expressive of the paternal feelings of a forlorn old In¬ 
dian who had lost his only son in the field of battle. 
Seeing an English captive, whom he had previously 
adopted and fostered as his own child, look wistfully 
at the tents of his countrymen, on the commencement 
of a campaign, he granted his manumission in these 
words :—< Go, return to thy father, that he may 
still have pleasure when he sees the sun rise in the 
morning , and the tree blossom in the Spring.’ 

* The story to which Mr. Fox alluded, as connected with the above 
quotation, may be thus briefly related ;—The old Indian, in a skir¬ 
mish during our French war in America, had drawn his bow against 
a young English officer, and was about to transfix him with an ar¬ 
row ; when he became so struck by his resemblance to his own son, 
that he suddenly dropped the weapon, and saved him from being 
destroyed by his countrymen—by making him his own prisoner. 
Having taken him to his hut, he adopted him according to the In¬ 
dian manner, and treated him with the greatest kindness; he like¬ 
wise taught him the language and rude arts of his countrymen. 
This fondness increased to such a degree, that often, when gazing 
on him, he would burst into tears. 

On the return of Spring, the campaign recommenced, and the 
old man, who was still vigorous, took the field at the head of a par¬ 
ty of Indians. Having, after a long march across the forests, arriv¬ 
ed within sight of the British encampment, he pointed out to his 
prisoner, by the grey light of the morning, the tents of his coun¬ 
trymen at a distance. “There,” said he, “is the enemy who wait 
to give us battle. Remember, that I have saved thy life; that I 
have taught thee to conduct a canoe; to arm thyself with the bow 
and the arrow; and to surprise the beaver in the forest. What wast 
thou, when I first took thee to my hut ? Thy hands were those of 


52 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


“But,” continued Mr. Fox, “the most eloquent 
appeal to the softer passions which I recollect ever to 

an infant: they could neither procure thee sustenance nor safety. 
Thy soul was in utter darkness! Thou wast in want of every thing; 
thou owest all things to me.—I perceive it is thy wish to go over 
to thy nation ; but wilt thou take up the hatchet against us ?”—The 
captive of course replied that he would rather die than take up 
arms against his benefactor : on hearing which, the Indian, cover¬ 
ing his face with his hands, remained silent for some time; and 
then, in a voice choked by grief and tenderness, said,—“ Hast 
thou a father ?” 

“ My father,” replied the young Officer, “ was alive when I left 
my native country.” “Alas!” returned the Indian, ‘‘how wretch¬ 
ed must he be !” then pausing for a few moments, he continued: 
“Dost thou know that I have been a father ? I am a father no more ! 
I saw my son fall in battle. He fought by my side. I saw him ex¬ 
pire : but he died like a man! He was covered with wounds when 
he fell dead at my feet. But I have avenged him.!” 

These words were pronounced with the utmost vehemence, for 
the old man would not suffer a sigh to escape him: there was a 
keen restlessness in his eye, however, and his body shook with aq 
universal tremor ; but no tear flowed to his relief. At length, be¬ 
coming calm by degrees, he turned towards the East, where the 
sun was just rising, and said ; “ Behold ! young man, the beauty of 
that sky which sparkles with the beams of day ! the glorious sun, 
just arisen from his bed, and, arrayed in unclouded splendour, 
has just commenced his daily journey. Hast thou pleasure in the 
sight ?” 

“ I have great pleasure,” replied the officer, “ in beholding so 
beautiful a sunrise.” 

“I have none !” exclaimed the agitated Indian, as tears found 
their way and ran copiously down his aged cheeks. A few minutes 
afterwards, he pointed to a fine Magnolia, in full bloom, and said, 
“ Behold, my son, that beautiful tree ! dost thou look upon it with 
pleasure ?” 

“Yes,” replied the young man, “it is impossible not to look 
with pleasure on so fine an object.”—I have pleasure to look on 
it no more !” replied the Indian, in agony. “ Go ! return back to 
the tents of thy father, that he may stiff feel delight when he sees 
the sun rise in the morning, and the tree blossom in the Spring !” 


NOCTES FOXIANJE. 


53 


have heard or read, is contained in a Petition address¬ 
ed to Warren Hastings, by an Indian Princess, in fa¬ 
vour of her husband, who had been condemned to die 
by that ruthless governor. It is signed Almassa Ali 
Cawn; but as I recollect merely the tenor of it, I can¬ 
not attempt to do justice to the language, which, though 
adorned in all the grandeur of oriental sublimity, is 
pathetic in the most affecting degree; and might have 
melted a heart of stone. It had no effect, however, 
with Hastings.”* 

* We here insert the beautiful morceau of oriental eloquence re¬ 
ferred to by Mr. Fox : it is a literal translation from the beautiful idi¬ 
om of the Hindostanee language, but was not published on Warren 
Hastings’s trial:—The murder of Nuncaucar was more relied on in 
the impeachment. 

“ To the most high Servant of the most powerful Prince George, 
King of England: The lonely and humble slave of misery comes 
praying for mercy to the father of her children . 

“Most Mighty Sir, 

« May the blessings of God ever shine upon thee ; may the Sun 
of Glory shine round thy head ; may the gates of pleasure, plen¬ 
ty, and happiness, be ever open to thee and thine; may no sorrow 
distress thy days; may no grief disturb thy nights; may the pillow 
of peace kiss thy cheeks, and the pleasures of imagination attend 
thy dreams;—and, when length of years shall make thee entirely 
disengaged from all earthly joys, and the curtain of death shall 
gently close round thy last sleep of human existence, may the 
angels of thy God attend thy bed, and take care that the expiring 
lamp of thy life shall not receive one single blast to hasten its ex¬ 
tinction. 

“ O hearken to the voice of distress, and grant the prayer of thy 
humble vassal; spare, O spare the father of my children; save the 
husband of my bed, my partner, my all that is dear ! Consider, O 
mighty Sir! that he did not become rich by iniquity; that what he 
possessed was the inheritance of the most noble and illustrious an¬ 
cestors ; who, when the thunder of Britain was not heard on the 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 



“Do you not think, Sir,” said a gentleman present, 
“ that Paul’s exculpatory speech before King Agrippa, 
is a fine piece of oratory :—particularly that part of it, 
where he says, 6 1 would to God, that not only thou, 
but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, 
and altogether such as I am, except these bonds V ” 
“Ido,'Sir,” replied Mr. Fox, “and it strongly 

plains of Hindostan, reaped their harvest in quiet, and enjoyed- 
their patrimony unmolested. 

“ Remember thine own commandment—the commandment of 
Englishmen— thou shalt not kill; and obey the orders of Heaven 
give me back my husband—my Almas Ali Cawn : take all our 
wealth ; strip us of our jewels and precious stones, of our gold and 
silver ; but take not away the life of my husband. Innocence is 
seated on his brow 5 the milk of human kindness flows around his 
heart. 

“ Let us, then, go wander through the deserts; let us become 
tillers and labourers in those delightful spots of which he was once 
lord and master: but spare, O mighty Sir, spare his life ! let not the 
instrument of death be lifted up against him, for he has committed 
no crime except having vast treasures: by gratitude we had them, 
though at present thou hast taken them by force. 

“ We will remember thee in our prayers, and forget we were 
ever rich and powerful. My children, the children of Almas Ali 
Cawn, and thy petitioner for the life of him who gave them life,—■ 
\ve beseech thee from the author of our existence, loveliness; by 
the tender mercies of the most enlightened souls of Englishmen ; 
by the honour, the virtue, and the maternal feelings of thy most 
gracious queen, whose numerous offspring must be so dear to her. 
When the miserable wife, thy petitioner,, beseeches thee to spare 
her husband’s life, and restore him to her arms, thy God will 
reward thee, thy country will thank thee; and she who now pe¬ 
titions will ever pray f<?r thee, if thou grantest the prayer of thy 
humble vassal, 

“ Almassa Ali Cawn.” 

This petition was presented by the wife of Almas to Governor 
Hastings; but, alas! it had no effect. Almas was strangled ! 


NOCTES FOXIAN.2E, 55 

reminds me of the intrepid address of a man named 
Naville Gallatin, formerly a magistrate of Geneva, to 
the President of a branch, of the Revolutionary Tribu¬ 
nal, in that city, which, at the commencement of the 
Revolution, rivalled those of Paris, Lyons and other 
towns of France, in the multitude and barbarity of its 
executions. I shall quote the passage from D’lver- 
nois’ Letters, during the perusal of which, it struck 
me forcibly as being the finest piece of declamation I 
had ever read so much so, indeed, that the very 
words are impressed on my memory, and I think I 
shall never forget them. The undaunted prisoner thus, 
addressed his judges, when sentence of death had been 
passed upon him :—‘And now, mark the fate w’hich 
awaits you and your accomplices, for, you must not 
hope that guilt like your’s can go unpunished. You 
will find that all the ties of social order, which you 
have broken to attain your ends, will again be bro¬ 
ken by those who succeed j^ou in your crimes and in 
your power : new factions will be formed against you 
out of your own ; and as you have united, like wild 
beasts, in pursuing your prey, so, like wild beasts, you 
will tear each other to pieces in devouring it. Thus, 
will you avenge the cause of those who are fallen, and 
who are yet to fall, sacrifices to your avarice and am¬ 
bition. To them, as well as to me, the prospect of 
approaching immortality robs death of all its terrors ; 
but, to you, the last moments of life will be imbitter- 
ed by reflections more poignant than any tortures you 
can suffer. The innocent blood you have shed will 
be heard against you, and you will die without daring 
to implore the mercy of heaven V Such,” continued 


56 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


Mr. Fox, “was the impression made by this speech, 
and such the high character of Gallatin, that his fellow- 
citizens earnestly demanded to be allowed to revise^ 
his sentence; but, before the necessary steps could be 
taken, the tribunal contrived that he and another ma¬ 
gistrate should be shot on a remote part of the ramparts* 
in the middle of the night!” 


STAGE FRIGHT. 


57 


V. 

* —, ' w ; r 

STAGE FRIGHT. 

DELPINI THE CLOWN OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, 

Many anecdotes are told of this celebrated master 
of posture and grimace, but none exhibit his eccentri¬ 
city and selfishness (a combination, by the by, ge¬ 
nerally found in the character of too many foreign ar¬ 
tistes of the Theatre and Opera) in a more ludicrous 
point of view than the following, which was one even¬ 
ing related at Brookes’s by Mr. Sheridan, when the 
Prince and Duke of York, who knew Delpini well, 
were present. 

It should be premised, that several members of the 
Royal Family, and particularly the Prince of Wales, 
had pressed Sheridan to procure the insertion of Del- 
pini’s name in the books of the Theatrical Fund , in 
order to secure a provision for his old age. Mr. Sheri¬ 
dan did all in his power to promote the object in ques¬ 
tion ; but one grand difficulty was started in the course 
of the negotiation, which even his influence could not 
well remove :—this was, that as Mr. Delpini was mere¬ 
ly a clown, he could not be admitted; for, the laws of 
the society forbade relief to any but such as were ac¬ 
customed to speak on the stage. A remedy, however, 
was at length suggested, viz: that a few words should 
be written in the forthcoming pantomime, for Delpini 


5a 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


to repeat; and thus he was to rank among the Garricks 
and the Kembles of the day. 

The words in question were only three in number; 
and they were to be uttered by Delpini in the charac¬ 
ter of a Magician, at the instant that Harlequin and 
Columbine were in the act of embracing: they were— 
u Pluck them asunder /” 

Big with the expectation of his pension, but more 
so with the importance of his new character, Delpini 
repeated the above short sentence on every occasion, 
for several weeks, and with every possible variety of 
accent and intonation. There was not a performer 
in the Theatre whom he did not apply to, to hear him 
rehearse his part; so that, at length, every one voted 
him a complete bore. 

The gentleman whose applause he was most anxious 
of obtaining was Mr. Kemble; and, whenever he met 
him behind the scenes, in the passages, or in the Green¬ 
room, he caught hold of him by the arm or by a but¬ 
ton, and held him fast, until he had repeated the im¬ 
portant words with suitable gesture and action. One 
night, as Kemble was standing beside the wing, hel- 
meted and buskined as Coriolanus, and, with truncheon 
in hand, preparing to lead the Volsci forth to battle, 
Delpini made his appearance, and thus addressed the 
Roman hero: — 

“ Mistare Kembel, I am ver glad I av found you, 
Sare : you sal see me rehearsal my part.” 

“Not now,” answered Kemble, “it is impossible, 
Mr. Delpini ; do you not see that I am just going on 
the stage ?” 

“But,” persisted the grimacier, “I sal not detain 
you, Sare, un momenj; you sal see dat I prononce mon 


STAGE FRIGHT. 


50 


charactere, proprement; and vith de propere empha¬ 
sis on de last voard.” 

“ Well, well !” replied Kemble, pettishly ; “begin, 
begin :—I must go on the stage directly.” 

“ I sal not detain you, Sare,” returned Delpini, as he 
leaned on his right leg, and threw out his arm at an 
angle of forty-five degrees. Then, infusing into his 
countenance all the imitative rage which it was capa¬ 
ble of expressing, he bellowed out, “ Plock dem asson- 
dere !” 

Poor Kemble, the muscles of whose face had been 
screwed up to the most heroic pitch, felt his risible 
chord so tickled by Delpini’s ludicrous pronunciation 
and manner, that, at that instant receiving his cue of 
entrance, he was forced to turn his head aside from the 
audience, for nearly a minute, before he could address 
his troops without laughing. 

At length, the awful, important, and ominous night 
arrived when Mr. Delpini was to make his debut as a 
speaking actor. To those who are acquainted with 
the nature of what is, among theatrical people, termed 
stage fright , the writer need not state, that, however 
perfectly a young actor may be able to repeat his part 
by rote, in his own apartment, or at rehearsal ; there 
is a something , when he comes before the audience, 
in all the blaze of dazzling light reflected upon his per¬ 
son, that strikes him with terror, binds up his tongue, 
deprives him of memory, scatters his senses, and roots 
him to the spot, as if he were in a state of fascination : 
or, to speak in theatrical terms, “he is stuck fast.” 

Such was the case with poor Delpini: he had repeat¬ 
ed his little part until he had almost forgotten it, for 



<30 


THE CLUBS OK LONDON. 


it had left no.impression upon his mind; and his ex¬ 
treme anxiety destroyed even the little chance there 
was of his recollecting it in the time of need. He had 
spoken the words at least ten thousand times; he had 
repeated them sitting, standing, walking, lying; he 
had rehearsed them to all sorts of persons, and on all 
occasions, both at home and abroad ; he had given them 
every variety of form, accent, and emphasis, of which 
they were capable—but, when the hour of trial came, 
he was found wanting. 

The performers had crowded around, all anxious for 
his success, and all ready to prompt him ; but, as Solo¬ 
mon says, “in the multitude of advisers the counsel 
faileth, ?? so it turned out on the present occasion. Co¬ 
lumbine had flown to her faithful lover, and locked him 
in her fast embrace : the magician’s wand was raised 
aloft to command their separation; but—no words ac¬ 
companied the action. Delpini teas stuck fast. Voi¬ 
ces from every side cried out, “Now, Delpini, now’s 
your time !—fire away, my hearty !—speak, man !— 
why don’t you speak?” But the magician was, him¬ 
self, in a state of enchantment;—he was immoveable ; 
— until the prompter’s voice was heard above the rest, 
saying, “Pluck them asunder!” These words shot 
across his brain like a flash of lightning: he recovered 
from his trance, and repeating his action with the wand, 
he roared out “ Masso?umB.E—plock et /” 

This ludicrous termination of his arduous labours 
made the theatre echo with laughter, both behind and 
before the curtain ; and poor Delpini retired behind 
the scenes, in a state of the most complete discomfiture. 
Being a little recovered, however, he said to several of 



SyTAGrE FRIGHT. 


61 


the performers who came up to condole with him, 
their sides shaking with laughter, “Nevere mind, la¬ 
dies and gentlemens : dose may laugh dat lose ; I av 
win, and sal laugh to myself.—I av gain de pension, by 
Gar! and I care noting at all for nobody. ” 



YOJL. i. 


F 




()2 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


VI. 

THE ROYAL BROTHERS. 

Several of the Princes, sons to George III., be¬ 
came members of Brookes’s soon after coming of age'. 
The two eldest were of course great favourites with 
every body ; but this partiality was not so much the 
consequence of their high rank as of their great good¬ 
nature and affability, their convivial habits, and their 
uniformly genteel deportment. They shared largely, 
likewise, in the admiration of the fair sex, at whose 
tea and card-tables it was often a matter of serious dis¬ 
pute as to which was the handsomest fellow. Whilst 
many a maid, wife, and widow, anxiously endeavour¬ 
ed to captivate that gay deceiver—that modern Lo¬ 
thario—the Heir Apparent; other devotees wished to 
have the advantages of clerical consolation, and cast 
many a longing, lingering look on the manly features 
and comely person of the Bishop of Osnaburg. In 
short, two finer-looking young men than the Prince 
of Whales and the Duke of York, were not to be seen 
in a day’s march. 

Equality of rank and similarity of pursuits cemented, 
between the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, 
that fraternal affection which is so commendable a trait 
in the character of all well-regulated families ; and. 
though their opinions on many political questions were 
quite in opposition, that harmony was never disturb- 


THE ROYAL BROTHERS. 


63 


ed. Neither were their amusements entirely the same : 
the Prince paid his devoirs to Bacchus and Venus, and 
delighted in the pleasures of good company ; but was 
never known at Brookes’s—whatever he might have 
done elsewhere—to touch a card or handle a die. His 
Highness of York went farther; for he was not only a 
staunch worshipper of these two deities, but likewise 
offered many sacrifices to Mercury, by deep and con¬ 
stant play : this has been so often told to the public, 
that no more need be said respecting it. 

It being customary for the young bucks of those 
days to sit late, or rather early , over the bottle, it was 
very common, whilst “ serpenting home to bed ” to 
meet with odd adventures ; and no less so, to seek 
them. Tom-and-Jerryism was as much in fashion, if 
not more so, thirty or forty years ago, as it is now : 
Tom King was not the only wag who delighted in 
rousing a sleeping Frenchman out of his slumbers ; 
and, indeed, lamps were smashed, chairmen bilked, 
jarvies nicked, waiters kicked, and charlies floored, 
with as good a grace, and with as much glee and spi¬ 
rit, at that time of day, as by the present race of lark - 
hunters.—Who has not heard of the poor old washer¬ 
woman in St. JamesVstreet, who, whilst proceeding 
leisurely and soberly to her work, one dark morning, 
had her nether habiliments tied over her head with 
one garter, and her lantern fastened round her middle 
with the other, to light, or rather to show her, on her 
way ?—and all for a gratuity of two guineas !—A burn- 
ing shame! 

Many such scenes could be described,—many such 
adventures related ; but, for the present, one must suf¬ 
fice ; and it is hoped that the catastrophe which was 



64 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


so providentially prevented, will deter other young¬ 
sters from running heedlessly and needlessly into 
scenes of manifest danger. 

The Duke of York, Colonel St. Leger, Tom Step¬ 
ney, and two others, one morning, about three o’clock, 
came reeling along Pall-Mall, highly charged with 
the juice of the grape, and ripe for a row. Meeting 
with nothing worthy of their attention, they entered 
St. James’s-street, and soon arrived at Brookes’s, where 
they kicked and knocked most loudly for admission, 
but in vain ; for, nine-tenths of the members were then 
out of town, and of course the family and servants had 
for hours been wrapped in the mantle of Somnus. 
Our heroes, however, were resolved on effecting an 
entrance, and would soon have made one for them¬ 
selves, if some of the inmates, roused by the dreadful 
noise, and apprehensive of fire, had not run down¬ 
stairs and opened the outer door. 

Whilst all possible haste was exerted to effect this 
on the inside, it was proposed by one of the gentry 
outside, to rush in pell-mell, and knock down the wait¬ 
ers and every thing else that should impede their pro¬ 
gress. No sooner said than done : when they arrived 
in the inner hall, they commenced the destruction of 
chairs, tables, and chandeliers, and kicked up such a 
horrible din as might have awakened the dead. Every 
male and female servant in the establishment now 
came running towards the hall from all quarters, in a 
state of demi-nudity, anxious-to assist in protecting 
the house, or to escape from the supposed house-break¬ 
ers. During this melee there was no light; and the 
uproar made by the maid-servants, who, in the confu¬ 
sion, rushed into the arms of our heroes, and expected 


THE ROYAL BROTHERS. 


65 


nothing short of immediate violence and murder, was 
most tremendous. 

At length, one of the waiters ran for a loaded blun¬ 
derbuss, which having cocked, and rested on an angle 
of the banisters, he would have discharged amongst 
the intruders. From doing this, however, he was pro¬ 
videntially deterred by the housekeeper, who, with no 
other covering than her chemise and flannel-petticoat, 
was fast approaching with a light, which no sooner 
flashed upon the faces of these midnight disturbers, 
than she exclaimed, “For Heaven’s sake, Tom, don’t 
fire ! it is only the duke of York !”—The terror of the 
servants having vanished by this timely address, the 
intruding party soon became more peaceable, and were 
sent home in sedan-chairs to their respective places of 
residence. 


It has been remarked, since the death of the Duke 
of York, that he could never be accused of saying one 
good thing—that is, uttering one bon mot; this is cer¬ 
tainly untrue. 

At a dinner at Chelsea Hospital, the bottle had pass¬ 
ed round pretty freely. The Duke, who was in high 
spirits, having just emptied a bottle, said to one of 
the attendants, “Here, away with this marine .” 

Upon which, a general of that body, piqued for the 
honour of the corps, whom he considered to be insult¬ 
ed by such an observation, said, “I don’t understand 
what your Royal Highness means by likening an emp¬ 
ty bottle to a marine.” The Duke immediately repli¬ 
ed, “ My dear general, I mean a good fellow that has 
done his duty, and who is ready to do it again.” 

This neat turn excited great applause, and becoming 

F 2 



66 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


soon known in the army, has since been repeated with 
eclat at almost every mess-table in the service. 

His Royal Highness also said a tolerably good thing, 
which I find has not been done sufficient justice to in 
a late popular Magazine.—General England, who 
many years ago had the command of the Plymouth 
garrison, was a nrian of remarkably large size. With 
nearly the height of Samuel Macdonald, the Prince 
of Wales’s porter, he possessed almost the rotundity 
of Daniel Lambert. 

The Duke of York having eyed him with amaze¬ 
ment, one day at* the Horse Guards, exclaimed to his 
own Aid-de-camp, as soon as the General had made 
his bow, and was out of hearing ;—“England !—Great 
Britain, by G—d ! and the calf of Man to boot /”—* 
pointing to the General’s huge legs. 

Another very good bon mot is told of him : viz.* 
that when an Irish officer was introduced at the levee, 
as Major O’Sullivan O’Toole O’Shaughnessy, the 
Duke exclaimed, turning up the whites of his eyes, 
«OJ-s !” 





IRISH BU LJLS, 


G7 


VII. 

IRISH BUI LS. 

It was a favourite amusement with Mr. Sheridan 
(as Michael Kelly says of him in his u Reminiscen¬ 
ces”) to make for his Irish friends, and to repeat 
as theirs, certain ludicrous expressions which general¬ 
ly go under the denomination of Bulls ; and of these, 
he would sometimes in company drive a whole herd 
across the table, particularly if a native of the Eme¬ 
rald Isle happened to sit opposite to him. That many 
of these were manufactured for the purpose of ex¬ 
citing a laugh, there can be little doubt: but the fol¬ 
lowing, the writer believes to be too good, even for 
the ingenuity of Sheridan to fabricate—at least they 
must have had some foundation in truth. 


Our evening, at the club, the conversation turning 
on the propensity of Irishmen of all ranks to make 
blunders, a gentleman present defended his countrymen 
from the imputation, by saying that the natives of 
other countries made bulls as well as the Irish ; and 
he related several instances among the English and 
Scotch, to prove his position :—such as, an advertise¬ 
ment that appeared in the London newspapers some 
years ago, “ That Drury-lane was removed to the 
Opera House , until the former theatre should be re¬ 
built and the resolution of the magistrates of Glas- 



THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


gow (some months previous), “ To build, their new 
gaol from the materials of the old one ; whilst the 
prisoners were to remain in the latter , until the for¬ 
mer was rebuilt!” He maintained, moreover, that 
bull-making was by no means a necessary accomplish¬ 
ment in an Irishman ; for that only the lower orders 
made blunders, and that chiefly from their habit of 
thinking in one language , and speaking in another. 

“ Very true, my good friend,” replied Sheridan ; “I 
grant that the conception of an idea in the native Erse, 
and the utterance of it in a foreign tongue, (which the 
English certainly is to the majority of your country¬ 
men,) may be the cause of blundering, or mistransla¬ 
tion , if you will have it so, to those with whom the 
former is the language of infancy, and the latter is ac¬ 
quired by education : but I have heard so many Irish 
gentlemen —nay, men of taste and understanding— 
make bulls, that I consider this propensity to be not 
only inherent in all Irishmen, but that it proceeds 
from that mercurial disposition which never permits 
them to reflect, so as to examine sufficiently the whole 
of the subject matter of which they are about to speak. 

I will give you one or two instances within my own 
knowledge:— 


I PROMISE TO PAY. 

“ A friend of mine, a half-pay Colonel, not very fa¬ 
mous for punctuality in pecuniary matters,—a misfor¬ 
tune we are all liable to, God help us !—was pressing 
another friend for the loan of fifty pounds upon his bill 
at a short date. 

But, if I advance this sum,’ said the latter, ‘will 


IRISH BULLS. 


69 


yau be sure to be correct for once, by honouring your 
acceptance on the very day it will fall due ? Remem¬ 
ber, that this is the last chance I shall ever give you : 
—punctuality now, may ensure farther accommoda¬ 
tion. ’ 

“‘By St. Patrick!’ replied the Colonel, ‘ you may 
take your Bible oath, that I won’t forgit to remember 
to be as punctual as the sun in shining at twelve o’clock 
on a hot summer’s day.’ 

“ ‘ I shall rely on you, then,’ said his friend. 

“ ‘ Ay, Sir, and you may do that thing,’ answered 
the borrower, ‘for I’ll take care to be particular in 
paying the bill and the expense of the protest y at the 
same time.’ ” 

This capital bull caused a hearty laugh against the; 
Irish champion; but the following practical one com¬ 
pletely floored him ; and Sheridan, as was his custom 
when wit was the weapon, retired victorious from the 
field. 


ANCHOVIES ON TREES. 

“A few years ago,” continued Sheridan, “an Irish 
officer, who belonged to a regiment in garrison at Mal¬ 
ta, returned to this country on leave of absence; and, 
according to the custom of travellers, was fond of relat¬ 
ing the wonders he had seen. Among other things, 
he one day, in a public coffee-room, expatiated on the 
excellency of living, in general, among the military. 
‘But,’ said he, ‘as for the anchovies ,—by G—d! therp’s 
nothing to be seen like them in the known world !’ 

“ ‘Why, that is a bold assertion,’ said a gentleman 
present; “ for I think England can boast of that article 
in as great perfection as any country, if not greater,’ 


70 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


“ ( My dear Sur,’ replied the Irishman, ‘you’ll par¬ 
don me for saying that your opinion is founded on 
sheer ignorance of the fact: excuse my plain spaking: 
but you’d soon be of my way of thinking, if you saw 
the fruit growing so beautiful and large, as I have seen 
it many’s the day.’ 

“ ‘Well done, Pat!’ exclaimed his opponent; ‘ the 
fruit growing so beautiful and large! —on a tree l 
suppose? Come, you won’t beat that, however.’ 

“ ‘ Do you doubt the word of a gentleman, Sur ?’ re¬ 
turned the officer. 

“ ‘1 doubt the fact , Sir,’ answered the gentleman. 

“ ‘ Then, by the Powers ! you only display your own 
want of understanding by so doing : and I take it very 
uncivil of you : for I’ve seen the anchovies grow upon 
the trees with my own eyes, many’s the hundred times; 
and beautiful’s the grove of them that the governor 
has in his garden, on the esplanade: besides, the whole 
of the walls of the fortress are completely covered with 
them, as all my brother officers could attest at this 
present writing, were they here to the fore, to do that 
same.’ 

“‘Upon my soul,’ returned his opponent, laughing 
heartily, ‘you out-Mandeville even Sir John himself, 
and he was no flincher at a fib. He it was, I believe, 
who asserted that oysters grew upon trees on the Ma¬ 
labar coast; but you give us anchovies , ready pickled, 
I suppose, from the same source ! Huzza for St. Pat¬ 
rick ! the days of miracles have returned.’ 

“‘Then, Sur,’ returned the Irishman, bridling with 
anger, ‘am I to understand that you doubt my word?’ 

<“ You may understand, Sir, what you please ; but, 
though the license of travellers is generally allowed 


IRISH BULLS. 


71 


to be pretty extensive, you must not suppose that ei¬ 
ther I or any other gentleman in this company, are to 
be crammed with an absurdity so palpable, as that of 
anchovies growing upon trees !’ 

“ ‘As much as to say, Sur, in plain terms, that 
I have tould a lie ?—say the word, Sur, and I am sa¬ 
tisfied. I 7 m not quarrelsome, Sur; but, by my sowl 1 
only say that , and you had better been born without 
a shoe to your foot or a shirt to your back.’ 

“‘Neither you, Sir/ returned the gentleman, ‘nor 
any other man, shall compel me to say that I believe 
that which is by nature impossible.’ 

“ ‘ Then, Sur, I ’ll beg lave to address a few words 
to this honourable company ; after which, as my ve¬ 
racity and honour are concerned, both as an officer and 
a gentleman, if you do not retract your words, and own 
your conviction that what I have said is true, I shall 
insist on your meeting me in another place,—more 
convanient, maybe, for settling disputes than this 
room.’ 

“ ‘ Go on, Sir,’ said the gentleman. 

“ ‘ In the first place, then, gentlemen, upon my ho¬ 
nour and conscience ! as I have a sowl to be saved, and 
to escape the pains of purgatory !—I swear by all the 
saints in the calendar, and the Divil himself to boot, 
that I would scorn to tell a falsehood to man or mor¬ 
tal :—these very eyes have, on ten thousand different 
occasions, seen the anchovies, as plump as gooseberries, 
growing On, and plucked from, the trees, in His Ma¬ 
jesty’s Island and fortress of Malta.—In the second 
place—” 

“‘Impossible!’ interrupted his pertinacious oppo- 


72 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


nent: ( I tell you to your Face, and before these gen¬ 

tlemen, that you never saw any such thing.’ 

“ ‘The lie direct !’ exclaimed the military hero, i by 
the rod of St. Patrick ! it is more than a Christian offi¬ 
cer can bear : but I’ll keep myself cool for the honour 
of the corps; and I’d advise you, Sur, if you can’t be 
aisy, you’d better be as aisy as you can ; for if youspaik 
such another disrespectful and injurious word, I’ll not 
call you out at all; but, by the powers ! I’ll smite your 
eye out on the spot, and plaister the walls with your 
blood !—so you had better take care of yourself, and 
not be cantankerous, my dear honey.—But, to return 
to my argument, Sur, which you so uncivilly inter¬ 
rupted ; I was going to observe, in the second place^ 
to yourself, that it is a rule in the army, and more par¬ 
ticularly in the honourable corps to which I belong, 
that no gentleman shall presume to doubt the word 
of another, unless he can positively prove that he is 
wrong, and that, too, on the spot. Therefore, Sur, 
even suppose I had tould you a lie, you have no right, 
by the laws of honour, to challenge me with it; be¬ 
cause you niver were at Malta at all, and, of course, 
could not see the thing with your own eyes. But, Sur, 
by way of conclusion to my discourse, I have to re¬ 
mark to ye, that you have not only insulted an officer 
and a gentleman, but an Irishman ; therefore, I trust 
that every one present will see that I have sufficier 



raison for requiring satisfaction.’ 


“ ‘ Satisfaction ! pooh ! pooh ! for what? for a mere 


difference of opinion ?—Nonsense !’ exclaimed several 
of the party. 

“‘I beg your pardon, gentlemen,’ returned the offi¬ 
cer, 4 no difference of opinion at all: he has given me 




IRISH BULLS. 


73 


the he; and Cornailius O’Flanagan’s own father’s son 
won’t take the lie from man or mortal; even, as I said 
before, if it was true. Do ye know the way we begin 
fighting in Tipperary ? I’ll tell ye, if ye don’t:—Pad¬ 
dy chalks his hat, d’ ye see, all round the rim of it; 
and down he throws it on the green turf.—‘I should 
like any body to tell me now/ says he, ‘ that this isn’t 
silvur laice.’ —So, then, away they go to it with the 
shilelagh :—you understand me, Sur, that is our way. 
—An Irishman’s honour is dearer to him than his life; 
and even when in the wrong, he’d sooner die than 
have a lie thrown in his teeth. So now, gentlemen, 
I ’ll bid ye all a good night: and as for you, Sur, there 
is my card, which I shall be happy to exchange for 
yours.’ 

u The Englishman, of course, gave his address ; and 
the next day the parties met, attended by their se¬ 
conds : they fired, and O’Flanagan’s shot took effect 
in the fleshy part of his opponent’s thigh, which made 
the latter jump about a foot from the ground, and fall 
flat upon his back, where he lay for a few seconds in 
agony, kicking his heels. This being observed by the 
Irishman’s second, he said, ‘You have hit your man, 
O’Flanagan, that is certain—I think not dangerously, 
however, for see what capers he cuts.’ 

“ ‘ Capers! capers /’ exclaimed the Irishman; ‘Oh ! 
the heavenly Father ! what have I done ?—what a 
dreadful mistake !’—and running up to his wounded 
antagonist he took his hand, and pressing it eagerly, 
thus addressed him: ‘My dear frind, if ye’re kilt I 
ax yer pardon in this world and the next, for I made 
a divil of a mistake ; it was capers that I saw growing 
upon the trees at Malta, and not anchovies at all !’ 

tol. i. o 


74 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


(( The wounded man, smiling at this ludicrous ex¬ 
planation and apology, said, 6 My good fellow, I wish 
you had thought of that a little sooner :—I don’t think 
you have quite killed me ; but I hope you will remem¬ 
ber the difference between Anchovies and Capers as 
long as you live. 5 

Whilst on the subject of Bulls , the following, 
which were related the same evening, may not be 
unentertaining to the Reader. 

beresford’s notes. 

In the war in Ireland, in the year 1798, a part of 
the system amongst the desultory bodies of insurgents, 
was the stopping of mail-coaches and plundering them 
of all the property they were conveying. 

4 

* On the island of Malta, the caper-tree grows wild, in great 
•plenty, and is particularly abundant on the walls of Lavalette. Ever 
since the capture of the island, the fruit has been the undisputed 
perquisite of the officer in command of the engineers. Some time 
ago that officer complained to the governor that the trees were cut 
down, and the berries were carried away, by the inhabitants; upon 
which that facetious old gentleman issued the following eccentric 
order :—“ Whereas it has been reported to me, by the officer com¬ 
manding the engineers, that the inhabitants of Lavalette have for 
some time past destroyed the fruit, and cut down the caper-trees 
hanging on the outside of the walls of the garrison, it is the com¬ 
mand of the governor that no one, in future, cut capers , either on 
the top or sides of the said walls, except the lieutenant-colonel 
commanding the engineers : any one found cutting his capers on the 
walls, after this notification, will be confined in the black-hole for 
the first offence ; and for a repetition of so flagitious an act, the 
next capers he cuts shall be his own , at the tail of a calash, to the 
tune of a cat-o’-nine-tails. 

“God save the Kistg.” 




IRISH BULLS. 


fmr rnd 

Of all the loyalists in Ireland, Mr. John Claudius 
Beresford, a banker of Dublin, was the most obnox¬ 
ious to the rebels, from the circumstance of the tor¬ 
ture being inflicted by him and his corps of yeomanry, 
in his riding-house, on many of their body. When¬ 
ever, therefore, they discovered any of his notes, they 
always burned them to vex him ; by which means he 
would have been exceedingly enriched, had not his 
other numerous speculations overthrown him. 

THE NEW SUIT. 

An Irish gentleman had ordered a suit of clothes; 
but when the tailor brought them home, the coat 
hung like a sack on him, it was so very large. The 
gentleman was angry, and remarked that all his ac¬ 
quaintance would laugh at him, and say that “ he was 
not by when his measure was taking addings “ As 
sure as a gun, you have mistaken big Fitzgerald’s 
measure (the biggest man in Munster,) for mine.” 

Waxing warmer and warmer, and throwing in some 
severe reflections on poor snip, the latter at length re¬ 
plied : “ Why put yourself in such a rage, Sir ? blood 
and ’ounds ! is not there enough of the same stuff in 
the shoot to make it less ?” 

This repartee set all to rights, and a reconciliation 
instantly took place. 

• A MISTAKE ON BOTH SIDES. 

A poor Irish labourer one day met one of his coun¬ 
trymen in Tooley Street, and accosted him with— 
“ Ah ! Tead, how is every bit about ye ?” 


76 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“Bravely, by the hcky !” replied Tead ; “How 
goes yourself, Darby ?” 

“ What the divil should ail me?” was the answer. 
“ But how long have you been here, Tead ?” demand¬ 
ed Darby. 

“ How long ?” says Tead ; “ why, since last night; 
—and when did you arrive yourself, my jewel ?” he 
inquired. 

“ Oh, death and ’ounds !” replied Darby, “am not 
I here these eighteen months and a fortnight: but how 
did you leave the woman and childer—and are they 
minding their schooling ?” 

“ In troth then they are,” answered Tead, “ and as 
well as you cu’d wish.” 

“And when will you be after turning your face 
towards the ould sod ?” inquired Darby. 

“Why, Pll be with the craters Christmas-eve, any 
how,” f returned the other. 

“ '1’hen, by Jasus !” said Darby, “if you ? re for 
that, who knows but we’d be together.” 

After this manner they conversed for some time— 
when Darby at length exclaimed, “Why? by the ho¬ 
ly ! it is neither of us.” 


77 


Devonshire’s blade-bone. 


VIII. 

THE DUKE OF DEVONSHIRE’S 
BLADE-BONE. 

The old Duke of Devonshire, for several years, was 
in the habit of supping at Brookes’s ; and his favour¬ 
ite dish was a broiled or devilled blade-bone of mut¬ 
ton ; after picking which, he usually drank cham¬ 
pagne, punch, or any other beverage that he might 
happen to prefer. His Grace’s partiality for the above 
fare induced others to follow his example ; and blade- 
bones were frequently in such request, that the but¬ 
chers of St. James’s Market have sometimes been un¬ 
able to afford a sufficient supply. 

One night, Mr. Sheridan coming in late, and being 
pretty sharp set, called for a broiled blade-bone. The 
waiter told him that there was only one in the house, 
and that had just been ordered by the Duke of Devon¬ 
shire. 

“Oh, very well, no matter,” said Sheridan; “I 
shall think of something else, by and by.” Determin¬ 
ed, however, to have a blade-bone, he resolved to play 
a trick upon the Duke, which he did as follows :— 
Going up to the table where he sat, just as the waiter 
was about entering with the tray and cover, and put- 

G 2 


78 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON,. 


ting on an expression of great indignation and disgust? 
he thus addressed Mr. Hare, who sat by the Duke : 

“ Upon my soul, Sir,” said he, “I never was so 
disgusted in my life, as with a scene which I witness¬ 
ed a few moments ago. Returning from the house, 
just by the Abbey my foot slipped, and I fell into a 
puddle. Being very wet and uncomfortable, and there 
being no fire in any of the rooms below, I ran down 
into the kitchen, where I knew there was a good one. 
Whilst I stood drying my stockings and breeches, one 
of the Irish chairmen came in and laid hold of a prime 
blade-bone that lay upon the table, and began to gnaw 
it in famous style. One of the cooks, observing this, 
sprung towards him, and seizing hold of it, threw it 
on the gridiron, saying, ‘ D—n your greedy guts, you 
Irish-, that blade-bone was for the Duke of De¬ 

vonshire, and we have none other in the house : 
couldn’t you find any thing else to fix your hungry 
teeth in, you infernal rascal V Poor Paddy slunk off, 
vexed at not being allowed to finish his snack, and 
mumbled as he went out, ‘What a thundering row 
about a durtv mutton bone ! I wish it was stuck-’ 

“I appeared to take no notice of the circumstance ; 
but was resolved to acquaint his Grace with it, in 
case the said delicious morceau should be served up : 
'—and, by Jove ! here it is !” 

Sheridan’s trap was well set; for the Duke, turning 
down the corners of his mouth, pushed the tray from 
him, whilst he turned his head aside and vociferated 
to the waiter to bring him a glass of brandy. The 
man did as he was ordered, and was carrying the tray 
towards the sideboard, when Sheridan, who followed 




Devonshire’s blade-bone* 


79 


him close, told him to lay it down on another table, 
and to bring him a couple of bottles of Champagne, as 
soon as possible. 

He then sat down, and, as he a few days afterwards 
told the Duke and others, “ made a glorious supper, 
for he had been devilishly hungry.” 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


SO 


IX. 

“ HONORES MUTANT MORES !” 

The subject of conversation at Brookes’s, one even¬ 
ing, being Ireland and its politics, a gentleman, who 
possessed a fund of amusing anecdote, related many 
curious circumstances respecting the government of 
several of the late Lords Lieutenants ; among others, 
the following one of the Duke of Rutland, the motto 
of whose family, being a sort of pun upon their name, 
has been considered a very appropriate title for the 
present article. 

“ The jovial administration of the Duke of Rutland 
will be remembered in Dublin for many a long day ; 
it was marked by that festivity and splendour which 
ensured the good-will of all ranks. The viceroy was, 
moreover, very fond of mixing and conversing with 
the lower orders, and many a laughable tale could be 
told of the eccentric adventures of himself and his jol¬ 
ly companions. 

“One evening, his Grace, Colonel St. Leger, and 
one or two others, having entered into a public-house 
in the Liberty , they found the landlord to be so comi¬ 
cal a blade, that they invited him to sit down to sup¬ 
per with them. Darby Monaghan, who knew his 
Grace by sight, took good care that the entertainment 
should be such as to give every satisfaction to his 




ii HONORES MUTANT MORES.” SI 

guests, and he contrived to season it with such an 
abundant flow of native wit and drollery, that they 
were quite delighted with him. His wine and whis¬ 
key-punch were so good, that hy two in the morning 
they were all quite jolly, and ready to sally out into 
the street in quest of adventures. This, however, 
was prevented by the politic Darby, who contrived, 
hy the humour of his songs, and the waggery of his 
jests, to fascinate them to the spot, until, one after 
another, they fell drunk under the table. 

“ During their libations, and after Darby had said 
several good things in succession, the Duke, in a fit 
of good-humour, and by way of a joke, turned round 
to him and said, 4 D—n me ! landlord, you are a glo¬ 
rious fellow, and an honour to your country ; what 
can I do for you, my boy ? (hiccup.} I’ll knight 
you , by G—d ! so {hiccup again ) down upon your 
marrow-bones this instant!’— { Your Grace’s high com¬ 
mands shall be obeyed,’ said Darby, kneeling. The 
Duke drew his sword, and although Colonel St. Leger 
endeavoured to prevent his carrying the joke too far, 
he struck him over the shoulder, and uttered the omi¬ 
nous words, ‘ Rise up, Sir Darby Monaghan !’ Dar¬ 
by having humbly thanked his Grace, and sworn feal¬ 
ty to the King of England in a bumper, an immense 
bowl of punch was ordered in ; this was filled and re¬ 
filled, until at length the whole party became blind- 
drunk, as before stated. 

“The weather being warm, and the great quantity 
of punch which they had drunk, prevented the topers 
from feeling any inconvenience from the hardness of 
their couch, and they slept as soundly as they would 
have done on a down bed, either at the Castle or at 


82 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


the Lodge. Darby, who from long seasoning was 
soon enabled to overcome the effects of the whiskey, 
rose betimes, and having bustled about, soon prepared 
a comfortable breakfast of tea, coffee, and chocolate for 
the sleeping partners of his debauch. 

“ When all was ready, not liking to rouse them by 
shaking or otherwise, he stepped into the room upon 
tiptoe, and gently opened the window-shutters. The 
sun shining in full upon them, they soon aw’oke from 
their slumbers, wondering where they were ! The 
landlord, who was listening at the door, speedily put 
an end to their suspense, by thrusting in his black head 
and nodding to his Grace, assuring him, ‘That they 
were safe and sound, and not a bone* broke, in Darby 
Monaghan’s own comfortable and fashionable hotel; 
also, that if his Honour’s Grace and the other jontle- 
men would just shake them3clvos a bit, and slliish 
their faces with a little nice cowld spring water, they 
might fall to without any more delay ; for there was a 
breakfast, fit for a lord, laid out for them in the next 
room.’ 

“ This intelligence was received with much pleasure 
by the party, who having put themselves in decent 
trim, adjourned to the breakfast-room, where they 
found every thing of the best laid out in homely style : 
but what pleased them the most, was Darby’s atten¬ 
tion in bringing in a bottle of whiskey under one arm, 
and one of brandy under the other. Pouring out sev¬ 
eral glasses, he presented them to each, according to 
their choice; taking ‘the blessed Vargin to witness 
that a glass of good sperits was the best maid’eine iver 
envinted for waekness of the stomach, after straitching 
it with punch the over-night.’ 






tl HONORES MUTANT MORES. ” 8$ 

“ Darby’s courtesy was taken in good part ; and af¬ 
ter he had retired, the conversation turned upon his 
extraordinary humour. At length, Colonel St. Leger, 
seeming to recollect hirhself, said, ‘ I am afraid, my 
Lord Duke, your Excellency made a bit of a blunder 
last night: you conferred the honour of knighthood on 
this same landlord. 5 —‘ Did I, by heaven !’ exclaimed 
his Grace. ‘ That you did, 5 replied the Colonel. <D—n 
it ! how unfortunate !—why didn’t you prevent me ?’ 
— 6 I endeavoured to do so with all my might, but 
your Excellency’s arm was too potent; and I prefer¬ 
red seeing your weapon fall upon his shoulder, rather 
than have it thrust into me.’—‘ What an unfortunate 
affair !’ exclaimed the Duke, rising ; ‘ but I suppose 
the fellow doesn’t recollect the circumstance more than 
myself: let us call him in. I wouldn’t have such a 
thing reported at St. James’s for the world. I should 
be recalled, and be the laughing stock of every one at 

the Court. B-d and ’ounds ! to knight the landlord 

of a common punch-house !—the thing is surely im¬ 
possible !’ 

“ 6 Both possible and true,’ replied the Colonel; 
‘but let us ring for him, and hear what he himself 
knows about the matter.’—Darby, who was in attend¬ 
ance on the outside of the door, heard all that passed, 
and resolved to resist every attempt at depriving him 
of his newly acquired honours. On his entering the 
room, the following dialogue took place :— 

“ Du/ce of Rutland. I say, landlord, we were all 
quite jolly last night ? 

“ Darby Monaghan. Your Honour’s noble Grace 
may say that same : we drank thirteen whacking bowls 
of punch amongst five of us. 



84 


TEE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“Duke. Ah! so we did, I believe,—thirteen to 
the dozen,—and you supped with us ? 

“Darby. Many thanks to your Grace’s Excellen¬ 
cy, Darby Monaghan did himself that same honour. 

“ Duke. No honour at all, my good fellow. But 
I say, Darby, do you recollect any thing particular 
that I did,-—in the way of joke, you know ; some 
foolish thing, when we were all as drunk as fiddlers ? 

“Darby. By J—s ! yer Dukeship may say that, 
any how 7 . I dare say the Colonel well remimbers 
your filling up the last bowl from the whiskey jug, 
instade of from that containing the hot water. By 
the powers! I could not stand that; it set me off, whiz¬ 
zing like a top ; and I doesn’t recollect one single thing 
after we emptied it. 

“Duke, {laughing.) Oh, then you don’t remem¬ 
ber my drawing my sword, and threatening to run 
you through the body ? 

“ Darby. The Lord above for iver presarve yer 
Dukeship’s Highness from cru’l murder and sudden 
death, all the days of yer life ! I don’t remimber any 
such thing; but I remimber well the w-hack yer Excel¬ 
lency’s Royl Highness gave me with that same sword 
over my shoulder, when ye bid me ‘rise up, Sir Darby 
Monaghan.’ 

“ Duke. \ou do? eh ! But that was all in jest, 
you know, Darby; and so we must think no more a- 
bout it. 

“ Darby. Long life to your Highness! but I took it 
in right arnest; more by token that my shouldher aches 
at this moment with the blow : but I mustn’t mind 
that, for it was given upon an honourable occasion, and 


u HONORES MUTANT MORES.” 85 

Tesaived with good will: so, thanks to yer Excellency 
for all favours, now and hereafter. 

“Duke. But you don’t presume to suppose, my 
good fellow, that I actually conferred upon you the 
honour of knighthood ? 

“ Darby. By the powers ! yer Highness, but I do. 
Sure, I wouldn’t be after doing yer Highness such dis¬ 
credit as to think ye meant to break yer royl word to 
man or mortal, 

“Duke. Oh, the devil! ( whispering ,) I say, Colo¬ 
nel, what is to be done ? 

“Colonel. (whispering .) Give him some birth, 
and make him promise to say nothing about the frolic. 

“ Duke. Well, Darby, I don’t mean to act scur- 
vily towards you ; I can give you a tide-waiter’s place, 
or something in the excise, that will bring you in about 
one hundred and fifty pounds a-year, and make you 
independent for life. 

6( Darby, [kneeling , and kissing the Duke’s hand.) 
Let me go on my marrey-bones once again, to thank 
yer Royl Highness for being so good and marcifull to 
poor Darby Monaghan ! He’ll niver forgit to remim- 
ber to pray for yer Excellency to the blessed Saints, 
on Sunday or holyday. 

“Duke. Well, then, Darby, it is settled that you 
give up the title, and that nothing shall ever be said 
about last night’s adventure ? 

“ Darby. Give up the title ! yer Grace ? and not 
be called Sur ! after all ?—I thought the hundred and 
fifty pounds a-year was to keep up my style as a true 
and loyal knight. 

“ Duke. No, faith ! you sha’n’t have place and 
title too : so choose without delay. 

vol. i. h 


so 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“Darby, {pausing.) Well, yer Grace, if yer 
Excellency plaises, Pd rather keep the title: for, d ’ye 
see, it ’ll be such a wonderment for a punch-house to 
be kept by Sir Darby Monaghan, that I’ll soon have 
all the custom of Dublin city; and that’ll be better than 
~li tide-waither’s place, any how. 

“Duke, {laughing.) Well, then, without more 
argument about the matter, you shall have a place of 
two hundred and fifty pounds a-year, and you must 
give up your knighthood this instant. 

“Darby, {going out.) Plase yer Excellency, 
then, I’ll just step up-stairs and ax her Ladyship’s ad¬ 
vice ; and, I dare say, she’d rather have the money. 
So, I ’ll inform your Honour’s Grace in a twinkling. 

“Her Ladyship was accordingly consulted on this 
important question; and she wisely, and without hesi¬ 
tation, voted for the income of two hundred and fifty 
pounds, which they enjoyed for many years. The 
title , too, stuck by them till the last; for, after the 
Duke’s departure from his Viceroyalty, the affair was 
bruited abroad, to the great amusement of the middle 
and lower orders in Dublin, who never failed to ad¬ 
dress the fortunate couple by the appellations of 6 Sir 
Darby and Lady Monaghan.’ ” 















0J7NSELL0R DUNNING. 


87 


x. 

COUNSELLOR DUNNING. 

Soon after the commencement of Mr. Brougham’s 
popularity in the House of Commons, Sir Thomas 
Stepney, speaking of him one evening at Brookes’s, 
said that he put him greatly in mind of Lord Ashbur¬ 
ton, formerly Mr. Dunning, whom, he said, he resem¬ 
bled, both in person, and as a speaker at the Bar and 
in the Senate. Besides describing the great talents of 
this lawyer, he related several characteristic anecdotes 
of him, as follow :— 

Dunning was a short, thick man, with sallow com¬ 
plexion and turn-up nose ; he had a constant shake of 
the head, and latterly a hectic cough, which gave him 
great interruption whilst speaking ; but even these 
physical disabilities he overcame by the splendour of 
his genius, and the extent of his knowledge, not only 
of the law, but of almost every other subject. Although 
an excellent common lawyer , his elocution, which 
was flowing and classical, partook more of the spirit 
than of the letter of the laws : in this respect he great¬ 
ly resembled Lord Erskine ; and in what is termed 
the Copia Verborum , he was the very prototype of 
Mr. Pitt. He was, moreover, a complete master of 
various kinds of style ; and not only in many cases 
set the court in a roar of laughter, by the effervescence 


S8 


THE CLEBS OF LONDON 


of his wit and humour, but likewise delighted in draw¬ 
ing a smile even from the gravity of the Bench itself. 

He was exceedingly sarcastic, and, with all his learn¬ 
ing and eloquence, (like many of the fraternity of the 
bar,) too often indulged, in the latitude of cross-exami¬ 
nation, in the low vice of punning upon the names 
and occupations of witnesses and others ; as if he had 
had no other means of ensuring respect and fame, than 
by endeavouring to raise them on the diffidence, the 
weakness, or the modesty of persons, who, perhaps, 
never entered a court of law before. For this hateful 
practice, however, he received several severe rubs 
from his brother counsellors, and even from the wit¬ 
nesses themselves. 

One morning, he was telling Mr. Solicitor-General, 
(the famous Jack Lee,) that he had just bought seve¬ 
ral good manors in Devonshire, near his native vil¬ 
lage, Ashburton. 

“I wish, then,” said Jack, “that you would bring 
some of them ( manners) into Westminster Hall; for, 
by heaven ! you often deserve to be kicked for your 
impertinence.” 

In a case of crim. con., a good-looking young wo- 
man was interrogated by Dunning in a very rude 
manner. He made her take off her bonnet, as he said, 
“to have a view ol her countenance, in order to see 
whether the truth came t from her tips!” but in re¬ 
ality to confuse her in her evidence, which he knew 
was conclusive against his client.—Having asked her 
many questions, in the hope that she would contradict 
her former statement, he inquired, whether her mis¬ 
tress (the adulteress) had communicated the secret of 
her amour to her? 











COUNSELLOR DUNNING. 


89 


“No, Sir,” said the witness, “she certainly never 
did.” 

“And how, then, can you swear to her infidelity ?” 

“ Because I saw the defendant in bed with her.” 

“ Indeed !” said Dunning. 

“Yes, indeed, Sir,” replied the girl. 

“But are you sure—upon your oath, rerhember— 
that it was the defendant ?—How do you know it 
wasn’t your master that was in bed with her ?” 

“ Because I saw the defendant’s face, and my mas¬ 
ter was not in the room.” 

“Now, pray, my good woman,” said Dunning, 
thinking to silence her at once, “did your master— 
for I see you are very handsome—did your master, I 
say, in return for his wife’s infidelity, go to bed with 
you ?” 

“ That trial” replied the spirited girl, “ does not 
come on to-day , Mr. Slabber-chops .” This answer 
produced a roar of laughter throughout the Court, in 
which Lord Mansfield, who presided, joined most 
heartily ; for he was at all times glad to see Dunning 
receive a Roland for his Oliver.—He asked him whe¬ 
ther he had any more questions to put? 

“No, my Lord,” said the chap-fallen inquisitor, 
settling his wig and sitting down ; “ I have done : the 
witness may retire.” 

One day, whilst cross-examining and endeavouring 
to bother an old woman, in a case of assault, he asked 
her, in reference to the identity of the defendant, 
whether he was a tall man ? 

“ Not very tall,” said she ; “ much about the size 
of your worship’s honour.” 

“ Was he good-looking ?” 

h 2 


90 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


u Quite the contrary ; much like your honour, but a 
handsomer nose.” 

“ Did he squint ?” 

“ A little, your worship ; but not so much as your 
honour, by a great deal.”—Dunning asked her no 
more questions. 

Excepting in his cross-examinations, Dunning was 
very tenacious of supporting his dignity as a barrister 
in the Court ; and he at all times contrived to keep 
Lord Mansfield in check, whenever he tried to brow¬ 
beat or to overlook him as an advocate. On several 
occasions, when his Lordship, who had great quick¬ 
ness and tact in finding out the nice point of a cause, 
took up a newspaper, by way of amusing himself on 
the bench, whilst Dunning was speaking, the latter 
made a dead stop—This would rouse Mansfield to say, 
“Pray, go on, brother Dunning.” 

“ No, my Lord,” invariably answered the barrister, 
“not till your Lordship has finished.” 

He had a happy knack of illustrating his arguments 
by anecdotes, &c., parallel to the cases which were 
under the consideration of the jury. Pleading one 
day, to set aside the will of a superstitious old dotard, 
who had left the whole of his property for building a 
chapel, and for the extravagant maintenance of the 
preacher of a sect to which he had belonged,—to the 
utter disinheritance of his own daughter, who had dis¬ 
pleased him by marrying out of the congregation ,— 
Mr. Dunning concluded his address to the jurors in 
these words :— 

“ But why need I expatiate, gentlemen, on the enor¬ 
mity and folly of this bigoted parent ? I shall not in¬ 
sult your understandings by saying another word on 











COUNSELLOR DUNNING. 


91 


that disgusting subject. But, that you may be per¬ 
fectly satisfied,—however much these selfish people 
may think themselves wronged by non-compliance 
with the terms of the will—that the testator’s child, 
only , has a natural, a moral, and a legal right to the 
whole of his estate ; need I bring any other proof than 
that of the legitimacy of her birth ? Surely not!—I 
shall not detain you longer, therefore, than by relating 
a little Spanish fable, which I shall leave you to apply 
as your own consciences may dictate.—‘A monkey 
once stole a gentleman’s hat and feather, which he put 
upon , his own head. A dispute arose between the 
parties. The monkey called a number of his fellows 
to prove that the hat belonged to him. The appeal 
was made to the elephant, as he did not belong to ei¬ 
ther of the species of men or of monkeys. The gen¬ 
tleman also, on his part, called a few witnesses to 
prove that the hat was his property. i There is no 
reason,’ said the elephant, ‘ to waste time in the exami¬ 
nation of witnesses: the hat and feather belong to the 
gentleman .’ ”—The patrimony was awarded to the 
young lady. 

In a case of demur at the excessive charges of a 
.fashionable tailor, the following story, related by Mr. 
Dunning, had considerable weight with the jury, in 
reducing the bill :—“ An officer of the regiment of 
Artois, in France, who had visited London, was on 
his way from thence to Paris, and spent a night at the 
Hotel D’Angleterre, at Calais. On examining his bill 
the next morning, he found that he was charged a 
guinea for his supper, which had consisted only of 
cold meat and a bottle of vin du pays. 

“ Enraged at so gross an imposition, he summoned 


92 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


the host, and insisted on a considerable abatement — 
‘ Milord !’ said the landlord, ( I cannot disgrace an 
Englishman of your rank, by charging him a less 
price.’ 

“ 6 Sirrah !’ replied the officer, ‘I am not an Eng¬ 
lishman, nor a man of quality, but a poor lieutenant in 
the service of the Grande Monarque.’ 

“‘Morbleu!’ rejoined the landlord, < I confess I 
have made an egregious blunder. I hope your excel¬ 
lency’s honour will forgive me, if I reduce my demand 
to half-a-crown P ” 

Notwithstanding his great eminence as a Juris-con- 
sult, he had no great inclination ever to enter into a 
lawsuit himself; a precaution, by the by, peculiar to 
all great lawyers.* One evening, on his return to his 
house at Fulham, his steward came in to tell him that 
a neighbouring farmer had cut down two great trees 
on his premises. “ Well,” said he, “and what did 
you say to him ?” 

“ Say to him !” replied the man, “why I told him 
we should trounce him famously with a lawsuit.” 

* One day, after Counsellor Marriott had retired from practice, he 
happened to be in a company where the uncertainly of the law be¬ 
came the topic of conversation; and he, of course, was applied 
to for his opinion, which he gave in the following laconic style:— 
“ If any man was to claim the coat upon my back, and threaten me 
with a lawsuit if I refused to give it him, he should certainly have 
it; lest, in defending my coat, I should too late find to my cost, 
that I was deprived of my waistcoat also.” 

According to the newspapers, an action of ejectment being 
tried at Durham a few months ago, in which a point of law raised 
by Mr. Pollock was overruled by Baron Hullock, his Lordship ob¬ 
served that the point must be decided elsewhere; saying, “Your 
only remedy is in a Court of Equity, and /, far one , would not ad¬ 
vise you to go there.” 









COUNSELLOR DUNNING. 


93 


ti Did you so?” said Dunning: “then you must 
carry it on yourself; for, depend on’t I sha’n’t trouble 
my head about the matter.” 

Unfortunately, Mr. Dunning possessed a degree of 
personal vanity , which was very incompatible with 
his contemptible figure, general understanding, and 
great attainments. The consequence was, that he fan¬ 
cied he had a taste for dress, and that his influence 
with the fair sex was irresistible. His great wealth, too, 
enabled him to indulge his amorous feelings, by taking 
several very fine women under his protection.—One 
evening, at George’s Coffee-house in the Strand, where^ 
on account of his distance from home, h^ was accus¬ 
tomed to invite the wits and literati of the day to dine 
or sup with him three or four times a week,* he was 
boasting to Sam. Foote, how much the ladies in ge¬ 
neral were in love with him; and said that a favourite 
girl of his was so particularly fond, that she actually 
died with a letter of his in her hand 1 u Ah! poor 
young lady,” said the wit, “I heard she died upon 
the-”' 

Though Lord Ashburton died at the early age of fif¬ 
ty-two, t he had saved no less a sum than 150,000/. in 
the twenty-five years of his practice ! Besides which, 
lie always lived in a liberal style; though, from the 

* Dunning’ was attached to this house, from having frequented it 
in the early part of his career. Here he unbent himself from the fa¬ 
tigues of business, by enjoying the society of Foote, Garrick, Mur¬ 
phy, &c., and on Saturday noon he generally took a whole bevy of 
them down with him to his house at Fulham, where they enjoyed 
themselves until Monday morning, when they all drove to town 
together. 

f A. D. 1783, the year after he was ennobled, and became Chan¬ 
cellor of the Dutchy of Lancaster. 



94 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


great extent of his practice at the Bar, he had no time 
to enjoy the pleasures of a regular domestic establish¬ 
ment. He was three years at the Bar without receiv¬ 
ing even as much as one hundred guineas !* During 

* Whilst Dunning studied in the Middle Temple, and for some 
years afterwards, his father, who was an attorhey in his native town, 
allowed him a hundred a year; and he had chambers up two-pair 
of stairs in Pump-court, where it was his custom to read from an 
early hour in the morning until late in the evening, without ever 
going out, or permitting the lounging visits of his fellow-students. 
He then made his dinner and supper together, at the Grecian or 
George’s Coffee-house, to the frequenters of which, his wit and 
information were a great treat. He was first brought into notice, 
professionally, by drawing up a Memorial respecting a dispute be¬ 
tween the English and Dutch in the East Indies. This was in 1764, 
and it was such a masterpiece of language and reasoning, as to 
produce a conciliating answer and redress from their High Mighti¬ 
nesses of Holland; on which occasion, the English East India 
Company presented him with a 500/. bank-note. His fortune was 
now made; for his abilities being thus known and recognised, 
briefs poured in on every side. 

Whilst he was in the meridian of his practice, old Mr. Dunning 
came to London to join in securities for a law-student performing 
his terms, &c. When he had signed the bond, the clerk at the 
Treasurer’s Office in the Temple, seeing the name, asked him with 
some eagerness, whether he stood in any relation to the great Dun¬ 
ning? The old man, feeling this inadvertent praise of his son, 
drew himself up, and replied with great dignity and sensibility, 
•“I am John Dunning’s father , Sir.” 

Mrs. Dunning, coming once to town to see her son, took frequent 
opportunities of reprehending him for what she deemed the great 
extravagance of his house-keeping. Several of the gentlemen 
above-mentioned being at Fulham one Sunday, a very elegant en¬ 
tertainment was prepared, to do his mother all due honour. When 
the old woman, however, beheld the splendid sideboard and table 
laden with all the varieties of the season, she was struck dumb with 
amazement, and hardly spoke during the repast. Having at length 


COUNSELLOR DUNNING. 


95 


the fourth, he received upwards of a thousand ; and 
during the latter twelve, his practice amounted to be¬ 
tween eight and ten thousand a-year.—Few lawyers,, 
without a considerable paternal estate at starting in the 
world, and who have died at fifty, have left so large a 
fortune at their decease. 

/ , * . 

taken an opportunity of withdrawing-, she sent for her son, whom 
she thus addressed:— 

“ John,” said she, “ I shall not stop another day to witness your 
shameful extravagance.” 

“ My dear mother,” replied John, “you ought to consider that 
I can well afford it:—my income, you know—” 

“No income,” interrupted the old woman, “is sufficient to 
stand against such shameful prodigality. The sum which your cook 
told me that very turbot cost, ought to be enough to support any 
reasonable family for a whole week.” 

“ Pooh, pooh! my dear mother,” responded Dunning, “ you 
would not have me appear shabby. Besides, what is a turbot, 
after all ?” 

“ Pooh, pooh !” re-echoed his mother; “don’t pooh ! me, John. 
I tell you, such goings-on can come to no good; and you will see 
the end of it before long. However, it sha’n’t be said that your 
mother encouraged such sinful waste; for I mean to set off in the 
coach for Devonshire to-morrow morning.” 

All Dunning’s rhetorical efforts to detain his mother in town were 
of no avail. The old lady kept her word. 




96 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


XI, 

BLUE HANGER. 

Lord Coleraine, formerly known by the familiar 
appellation of Blue Hanger , from the colour of his 
clothes, was perhaps the best dressed man of his age; 
and he was no less remarkable for his politeness and 
good humour. Heavy losses at play, when he was a 
young man, compelled him to retire into France, in 
order to avoid his creditors; and there he remained 
upwards of twelve years, until the death of his elder 
brother ; when he came to the title, and returned to 
this country a complete Frenchman. 

On his Lordship’s first visit to Drury-lane Theatre, 
his natural turn for pleasantry brought him into a ren¬ 
contre that gave him some uneasiness. Seeing a gen¬ 
tleman in bools enter the box where he was sitting, in 
the dress-circle, and place himself on the seat just be¬ 
fore him, rather abruptly, his ideas of etiquette could 
not well brook what in France would have been con¬ 
sidered a breach of decorum. Accordingly, he address¬ 
ed him in the following words:—“I beg, Sir, you 
will make no apology !” 

“ Apology, Sir!” replied the stranger; “apology 
for what?” 

“Why,” returned his Lordship, pointing down 
towards the boots, “ that you did not bring your horse 
with you into the box. ” 


BLUE HANGER. 


97 


u Perhaps it is lucky for you, Sir,” retorted the stran¬ 
ger, “ that 1 did not bring my horsewhip; but I have 
« remedy at hand , and I will pull your nose for your 
impertinence.” Some other gentlemen in the box 
now interfered ; an exchange of cards took place, and 
both parties left the theatre. 

Blue went immediately to his brother George, at 
Brookes’s; and having stated the particulars, begged 
his assistance to get him out of the scrape; “ which,” 
said he, “may end in bloodshed.—I acknowledge,” 
he continued, “that I was the first aggressor; but it 
was too bad to threaten to pull my nose. What had 
I better do ?” 

“ Soap it well,” replied George, “and then it will 
easily slip through his fingers.”* George, however, 
accommodated the affair to the satisfaction of all par¬ 
ties, by explaining to the stranger, that his brother had 
resided so long in France, as almost to forget the cus¬ 
toms of his countrymen. 

* This method of avoiding a hearty tweak of the proboscis ap¬ 
pears to have been a favourite of Colonel Hanger’s, for he recom¬ 
mends it even in the Memoirs of his Life : he says, that whenever 
any person is inclined to calumniate a gentleman behind his back, 
he ought to take the precaution of soaping his nose first . 


1 


VOL. I. 


98 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


XII. 

SELWYNIANA. 

For several years, George Selwyn was reckoned to 
be the prince of wits, not only at Brookes’s but in pri¬ 
vate society; and many persons still remember, that, 
in the generality of his repartees, there was a sting of 
attic poignancy which rendered him, in a peculiar man¬ 
ner, the scourge of folly and self-pretension:—this will 
be fully exemplified in the following anecdotes. 

One morning, whilst he was drinking chocolate with 
the Duke of Queensberry, a newly appointed Commis¬ 
sioner of Taxes made his appearance at his Grace’s 
house in Piccadilly, to pay his compliments. This 
man was in a tumult of joy at his preferment; but, 
though it was to the Duke he had primarily been in¬ 
debted for his good fortune, he hardly thanked him ; 
for he was possessed with the notion that it was from 
his own merit that he had acquired the promotion. On 
his entree, he assumed several consequential airs, think¬ 
ing that he was now as great a man as the Duke him¬ 
self; and he only deigned to notice the obligation as 
far as two friends, on a scale of absolute equality, would 
think of noticing a familiar interchange of civilities 
which might have occasionally passed between them. 

“So, Mr. Commissioner,” said Selwyn—“you will 
excuse me, Sir, I forget your name,—you are at length 
installed, I find.” The word installed conveyed an 










SELWYNIANA. 


99 


awkward idea ; for the new Commissioner’s grandfa¬ 
ther had been a stable-boy, and of course literally be¬ 
longed to the stalls. 

“ Why, Sir, 7 ' replied the other, “ if you mean to 
say, that I am at length appointed , I have the plea¬ 
sure to inform you that the business is settled. Yes, 
Sir, I am appointed ; and though our noble friend, the 
Duke here, did oblige me with letters to the minis¬ 
ter, yet these letters were of no use; and I was posi¬ 
tively promoted to the office without knowing a syl¬ 
lable about the matter, or even taking a single step 
in it.” 

( ‘ What! not a single step ?” cried George. 

“No, not one, upon my honour,” replied the new- 
fledged placeman :—“Egad ! Sir, I did not walk afoot 
out of my way for it.” 

“And egad, Sir,” retorted Selwvn, “you never 
before uttered half so much truth in so few words.— 
Reptiles , Sir, can neither walk nor take steps ;— 
Nature ordained it for them to creep” 


Sir Robert Macraith had for several years been head- 
waiter at the Cocoa Tree, where he was known by the 
appellation of Bob ; and at length rose from that hum¬ 
ble situation to the rank of Baronet. He was a clever, 
good-natured, civil fellow, and greatly liked. When 
he himself succeeded to the business, he was rather 
puzzled as to w’hat would be the most appropriate name 
for his house. George Selwyn calling in one morn¬ 
ing, he stated the difficulty to him, saying, that he 
was afraid “ Bob’s Coffee House” would sound ra¬ 
ther queerly. 



too 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“Qh, no,” said George, “just the thing ; for then 
it will be Bob without, and robbing (Robin) within. ' ' 


A lady, famous only for her low birth,—but who, 
from a large fortune acquired by her father, in the re¬ 
spectable and liberal occupations of pawnbroker and 
usurer, had been enabled to form a matrimonial alli¬ 
ance with a nobleman, whose constitution and estate 
had been broken up together in a continued round of 
dissipation,—was showing her new and elegantly fur¬ 
nished house to Mr. Selwyn. Having led him from 
room to room, and displayed the whole of her rhetoric 
and taste, she at last threw open a large pair of folding- 
doors that led into the grand saloon, which was su¬ 
perbly furnished, but contained no pictures. 

“Here, Mr. Selwyn,” said she, “I intend to hang 
up all my family.” 

“I thought,” replied George, “your Ladyship 
might have spared yourself that trouble ; for I always 
understood, they were hung up, long ago.” 


Another titled dame, young and beautiful, but very 
giddy and foolish, walking one day with Selwyn, ask¬ 
ed him, if from the smallness of her features and figure 
she did not look very young ? 

“ Indeed,” replied he, “ your Ladyship looks as if 
you were just come from boarding-school for the Mid¬ 
summer holydays ; and fit to return again to finish 
your lessons : it is hoped that in a year or two you 
would be able to read, write, sit, stand, walk, and 
talk.” 







SELWYNIANA. 


101 


When Selwyn heard that Earl Grosvenor had re¬ 
covered ten thousand pounds, as damages from the 
Duke of Cumberland, for adultery with his Lady, he 
exclaimed, “Foenum habetin Cornu !—who the devil 
would not be a cuckold ? a handsome wife is an abso¬ 
lute treasure in banco ! —Well, I always thought that 
Grosvenor wore antlers on his forehead ; but now I 
find it is a cornu-copia .” 

Selwyn one day dining at the old Duke of Rich¬ 
mond’s, a French Marquess was declaiming on the in¬ 
genuity of his countrymen ; “ who,” said he, “ were 
de grande artistes for de modes and de fashions, pour 
tout le monde ; —for instance, look at de roffel, (ruffle) 
dat fine ornament for de hand and for de breast : de 
Frenchman invent it, and all de oder nations of Eu¬ 
rope quickly adopt de same plan.” 

“ True,” replied Mr. Selwyn, “ we allow that your 
countrymen have great merit in invention ; but you 
must at the same time admit, that, though the English 
are not an inventive , they are at least an improving 
people : for example, to the very articles which you 
mention, they have made a very important and useful 
addition.” 

“ Les Jlnglois , Mistare Selvin,” returned the 
Frenchman, stroking and pulling down the ruffles on 
his breast and hands, u are, sans doute , ver clevare 
men ; maisje ne connois pas quelle improvement dey 
could have make to de roffel ; qu’est ce que la , Mon¬ 
sieur ?” 

“ Why, by adding a shirt to it, to be sure,” replied 
George. 


i 


o 




102 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


$ 

During the rage of republican principles in England, 
and whilst the Corresponding Society was in full vi¬ 
gour, Mr. Selwyn happened one May-day to meet a 
troop of chimney-sweepers, dressed out in all their 
gaudy trappings; and observed to Mr. Fox, who was 
walking with him, u I say, Charles, I have often heard 
you and others talk of the majesty of the people, but 
I never saw any of the young princes and princesses 
till now.’ 5 


Soon after Mr. Samuel Whitbread had returned from 
his travels, he rendered himself very conspicuous by 
taking an active part against the Ministry, at a public 
meeting of the Westminster electors. The Duke of 
Queensberry, speaking of this, at Brookes’s, said that 
“the brewer was making a desperate lunge at popu¬ 
larity.’ 5 

“ Pardon me, Duke,” replied Selwyn; “ he is only 
playing at carte and tierce .” 


A general officer in the American War, was, one 
evening, at the Cocoa-tree, describing to the company 
the phenomena of certain hot and cold springs, which 
he said he had frequently found quite close to each 
other, during his campaign in the south-western terri¬ 
tory. Just as Selwyn entered the room, he was saying 
that fish of various sorts abounded in the latter, and 
that all that those of the army who were fond of fish 
had to do, after the fatigue of a day’s march, in order 
to provide a dinner, was to angle for a few moments 
with a string and hook in the cold spring; and as soon, 
as the bait took, to pull out the fish, and pop it in the 




SELWYNIANA. 


103 


hot one, where it was boiled in the twinkling of an 
eye ! 

This marvellous account operated differently on the 
several gentlemen present; some were incredulous, 
others amazed, whilst all agreed that it was exceeding¬ 
ly curious. 

“ There is nothing at all surprising in the general’s 
narrative, gentlemen,” said Selwyn, “and indeed, I 
myself can vouch for the truth of it; for when I was 
in France I was witness to similar phenomena. In 
Auvergne there are springs similar to those in Ameri¬ 
ca, but with this remarkable addition, that there is 
generally a third , containing hot parsley and butter ; 
—accordingly, the peasants and others who go a fish¬ 
ing, usually carry with them large wooden bowls or 
ladles, so that after the fish has been cooked according 
to the general’s receipt, they have a most delicious 
sauce provided for it at the same moment!—You seem 
to doubt my veracity, gentlemen ; therefore I only beg 
that those who are incredulous may set out for France 
as soon as they please, and see the thing with their 
own eyes.” 

“But, Mr. Selwyn,” said the general, “consider 
the improbability of parsley and butter. ” 

“I beg your pardon, my good Sir,” interrupted 
George ; “I gave you full credit for your story, and 
you are surely too polite not to believe mine.” 

As one of those eccentricities which are sometimes 
known to prevail in the characters of men, otherwise 
perfectly consistent, it is necessary to relate that Mr. 
Selwyn—like one or two persons in high life of the 
present day—had the strange propensity of going to 



i 


104 THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 

see malefactors executed ! This his friend Horace 
Walpole has also related of him. In the metropolis 
he was seldom absent from a hanging-match ;—and he 
has been known on some occasions to have been pre¬ 
sent at such scenes even in the provinces ! 

A notorious criminal being to be broken on the 
wheel, at Paris, Selwyn left London in haste, to wit¬ 
ness the spectacle. In order to render this execution 
as solemn as possible, the French Government had 
ordered that many of the provincial executioners should 
attend; and these, on arriving at the Place de Greve, 
were ranged in a circle round the scaffold, and wel¬ 
comed, one by one, by the Paris finisher of the law, 
as ‘ Monsieur de Bordeaux,—Monsieur de Lyons,— 
Monsieur de Marseilles,’—&c. 

George having managed for a trifling sum to pro¬ 
cure a place among this assembly of artistes , Mon* 
sieur de Paris quickly spied him out, and thinking 
that it was the London hangman with whose presence 
his performance was about to be honoured, he saluted 
him by the honourable appellation of “ Monsieur Jean 
Ketch de Tyborn.” 

Selwyn, bowing, replied, “Sir, you do me rather 
too much honour : I have not yet received my diplo¬ 
ma as a professor of the art; I am only an amateur , 
but should be proud of the honour of bringing my 
hand in, by performing on a gentleman of your height 
and figure.” 

Returning in haste from France, in the winter sea¬ 
son, on hearing a report of a probable change in the 
Ministry, by which he was more than likely to lose 
his place, Selwyn appeared at the drawing-room at St. 



SELWYNIANA. 


105 


•fames’s, the next eourt-day, in a light-coloured velvet 
dress. The King taking notice of this, George repli¬ 
ed, <( Yes, Sire, it is rather a cool habiliment; but, 
notwithstanding, I do assure your Majesty that I have 
been in a violent sweat ever since my arrival in Eng¬ 
land.” 


Counsellor Gunning and Dr. Brocklesby, one even¬ 
ing at the Cocoa-tree, were conversing on the super¬ 
fluities of life , and the needless wants which men in 
society created for their own discomfort. Selwyn, 
whose aristocratic notions were such as to look with 
contempt on occupations of all sorts—on that of a 
medical man as well as that of a taylor,—exclaimed, 
•‘Very true, gentlemen, I am myself an example of 
the justice of your remarks; for I have lived nearly 
all my life without wanting either a lawyer or a phy¬ 
sician.” 


Mr. Selwyn’s sarcasms on medical men were parti¬ 
cularly severe; and he delighted in keeping a poor 
devil on the rack, when the humour of inflicting the 
torture was upon him. 

The Duke of Bedford, coming one evening into 
Brookes’s, complained of some sand or splinter which 
the wind had blown into his eye. In the course of 
an hour he irritated that organ so much by continual 
rubbing, that it became quite inflamed and painful; 
and, at length, several gentlemen begged that he would 
allow a medical man to be sent for without delay. Ac¬ 
cordingly, a servant was despatched for a fashionable 
oculist in the neighbourhood, who soon arrived, and 




106 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


quickly extracted the offensive matter, to the patient’s 
very great relief. 

Having ordered a glass of cold water for the Duke 
to bathe his eye with, in order to reduce the inflamma¬ 
tion, Mr.-was preparing to retire, when his Grace 

and several other members politely requested him to 
sit down and pass the evening in the club, if he was 
not otherwise engaged. 

The oculist, highly pleased by so flattering a com¬ 
pliment, accepted the invitation with alacrity, and 
sent orders to his coachman to return about two in the 
morning: he then sat down, and appeared so elated 
with his newly acquired consequence, as to consider 
himself quite at home. He addressed every one fa¬ 
miliarly by his name, and in a tone which seemed to 
say “Hey, fellow! well met;”—until at length he 
became rather a bore. 

His free-and-easy manner was tolerated by all but 
Selwyn, who sat fidgetting and longing for an oppor¬ 
tunity to attack him. At length, with an eye to busi¬ 
ness, and like a woodcock whose long bill is stretch¬ 
ed forth in quest of its insect prey, Mr. -perched 

into the tree of medical science; where, having des¬ 
canted largely and learnedly on the anatomy of the 
eye, he commenced a physiological lecture on the 
economy and uses of the retina, the pupil, the optic 
nerve, the lachrymal duct, the levator supercilii, and 
other parts of that organ. 

This was too much for Selwyn’s patience, and he 
cocked his rifle to bring him down. “I tell ye what, 

Mr. -,” said he; “this is, no doubt, all very fine 

and highly learned ; but you might as well treat your 
audience to a chapter out of the Hebrew Bible, for all 





SELWYNIANA. 


107 


they know or care about the matter. The worst of 
you medical men is, that you always mistake a saloon 
or drawing-room for the sick chamber; and you en¬ 
ter them with a pestle and mortar under your arm, 
whilst one hand brandishes the amputating-knife, and 
the other carries a glyster-pipe,—both ready for ser¬ 
vice.—Faugh ! 6 1 pray you reform it altogether. 5 ” 

“If I have offended by describing the nature and 
seat of the Duke’s disorder,” replied the oculist, “I 
humbly beg pardon.” 

“ Disorder ! my good fellow,” returned Selwyn ; 
“no disorder at all : merely an inconvenience, which 
you very cleverly removed, and that too in a most 
simple manner, merely by drawing the upper eye-lid 
down upon the cheek, and there leaving the speck. 
In my humble opinion, if you professional men who 
really do good, were to confine yourselves to the 
mere performance of your duty, and keep your sci¬ 
ence to yourselves, the rest of the world would 
respect you more for it; because people in general are 
apt to reverence that which is mysterious.” 

“My dear Sir,” replied the oculist, “we who are 
regularly bred to the profession, disdain all secrecy and 
mystery: these we leave to the charlatan, who prac¬ 
tises on the credulity of the public, by puffing nos¬ 
trums which are said to cure every disorder by some 
hidden or occult influence.” 

“Nay, Sir,” returned the persevering cynic; “I 
appeal to yourself, whether nine-tenths of the London 
physicians are not as great quacks as Brodum or Van 
Butchell ? Are not new theories as plentiful as black¬ 
berries? and does not each adopt that which is most 
likely to suit the humour of his patients, and fill his 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


H)S 

own pockets with fees ? Is not the public at one time 
dosed with arsenic and digitalis, and at another with 
asses’ milk and tar-water ? And in what are these bet¬ 
ter—nay, are they not a great deal worse, than Gra¬ 
ham’s Celestial Bed, or Brodum’s Steel Tractors?” 

“ Very true, Sir,” replied Mr.-, “ in the hands 

of unskilful persons they would be so; but no regu¬ 
larly bred man will prescribe, without paying due at¬ 
tention to the symptoms, age, sex, and constitution of 
his patients.” 

“ Stuff! my good fellow,” returned Selwyn; “you 
know as well as I do, that fashionable physicians need 
not possess talents, nor have much knowledge of their 
profession ; it is sufficient if they have skill and ad¬ 
dress to captivate a parcel of weak-minded old wo¬ 
men : whereas, men of real knowledge, who will not 
stoop to pick up and dispense scandal, are generally 
destitute of patronage—indeed, sure to be neglected* 
The spirits of hypochondriacal ladies are wonderfully 
exhilarated by a dose of gossip, well seasoned with 
calumny and properly administered: besides, fashion¬ 
able practitioners, when intrusted with family secrets, 
are useful to give advice in more respects than one; 
and if they possess the art of pleasing, they can do 

other things, you know, Mr. -, besides curing 

either ophthalmia or the windy cholic.” 

“Upon my word, Mr. Selwyn,” observed the ocu¬ 
list, “you are very hard upon the profession: but I 
could name many men whose virtues and talents would 
adorn any station in life: for example, the two Hun¬ 
ters, Dr. Warren, and many others.” 

“Very true! very true !” returned Selwyn, “there 
is no rule without exception; but I do not allude to 




5ELWYNIANA. 


109 


the skilful members of your profession—such as sur¬ 
geons and visiting apothecaries, who are certainly very 
useful in their way ; but to those gentry, who, without 
any acquirement, save fashionable cant and impudence, 
thrust themselves into practice and a carriage, and 
drive over the heads of men of real talent and honesty, 
trampling them in the dirt:— 

* Oh, quackery is the badge of all their tribe 

or, rather,—as Voltaire says of the knowledge of as¬ 
trologers, 6 Notre credulite fait toute votre science. 7 77 

“ Really, Sir, 7 ’ said Mr. -, “your severity as¬ 

tonishes me; and is, I must say, very illiberal. You 
surely do not suppose that all physicians are so igno¬ 
rant and unprincipled as you have described ?—if so, 
is it likely that they would be employed ? 77 

“Why not, my good Sir? 77 returned the pertina¬ 
cious and persecuting Selwyn. “ How are the public 
to judge of your faults or blunders, except it be, that 
the boldest among you are the most fortunate; for, 
in medical homicides, as in cases of murder, dead 
men tell no tales ? 

“ I remember having once read in some French au¬ 
thor, of a lover, who being on the point of losing his 
mistress by a dangerous illness, went in search of a 
physician, on whose skill he might depend. In his 
way, he met with a person who possessed a talismanic 
mirror, by which, objects, undiscernible by the naked 
eye, could be distinguished. Having purchased this 
wonderful instrument, he made all possible haste to 
the house of a celebrated physician in the neighbour¬ 
hood. 

vol. I. k 



110 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


“ In this mansion he beheld a multitude of spectres, 
which were the souls of men, women, and children, 
whom, in attempting to cure of various diseases, the 
physician had killed. Struck with horror at the sight, 
the young man effected a hasty retreat, and visited an¬ 
other practitioner, in whose house he beheld similar 
spectres, but not so many in number. Still terrified 
and disgusted, he again fled with precipitation, and 
successively entered the habitations of several other 
medical gentlemen , determined to find some one who 
was guiltless of the blood of his fellow-creatures ; but, 
alas ! the poor fellow met with similar scenes, more 
or less aggravated by numbers, wherever he went. 

“ At length, almost in despair of finding any medi¬ 
cal man fit for his purpose, or whom he could dare to 
employ, he was bending his steps homeward, sorrow¬ 
ful and sad, when he was asked by a friend who met 
him, whether, in the course of his peregrinations, he 
had called on a practitioner who lived in an obscure 
corner of the city ? 

“ He replied, that he had not—he must have 
escaped his notice; but that he would now bend his 
way to the suburbs for that purpose. 

“ Accordingly, the young man soon arrived at this 
doctor’s house, and having consulted his talisman, he 
perceived, only, the tiny souls of two little children. 
6 Now!’ exclaimed the lover, in a transport of joy, 
‘at length, I have discovered a skilful and honest 
physician, who will speedily restore my beloved to 
health and to my arms!’ 

“ Having related his business, the physician put 
some medicines into his pocket-case, and prepared to 
accompany him to the abode of his charmer. On 


SELWYNIANA. 


ill 


their way, his curiosity was excited to ask the young 
man ‘ how he had found him out, as he lived at such 
a distance?’ 

“ ‘How!’ replied the latter, ‘why, by your re¬ 
putation—your skill.’ 

“ ‘ My reputation!’ returned the compounder of 
drugs; ‘Lord, Sir, you are surely quizzing; I have 
not been more than eight days in business, nor have 
yet seen but two patients /’ ” 

This jeu d’esprit excited considerable mirth; and 

Mr.-could not help joining in the laugh against 

himself. But, anxious to defend his profession from 
the aspersions of so determined an assailant, he endea¬ 
voured still to maintain his ground, not considering 
that the longer he did so, the less chance had he of 
making a safe and honourable retreat; for, come what 
might, Selwyn was sure to have the last word—even 
if it were to be his last. 

“Your fable, Sir,” observed Mr.-, “is 

certainly very amusing; but amusement, you will 
allow, is not conviction. Indeed, as you must admit, 
the rule of conduct generally followed by medical 
men is totally at variance either with neglect or want 
of skill. When a practitioner finds that his own care 
is insufficient in subduing a disease, he never hesitates 
to send for some person more eminent, or rather more 
experienced, than himself, to assist him ; I have done 
so myself, in hundreds of cases.” 

“ Worse and worse, by G—d !” retorted the im¬ 
penetrable cynic: “with one doctor, you may have 
some chance—if it be only of being able to drench 
him with his own filthy potions, or of kicking him 
down-stairs ; but two are the devil—for one of them 




112 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


kills you by inches, and the other picks your bones— 
while both pick your pockets. No, no ; if I must be 
put to death, let me have the coup de grace as soon as 
possible ; and, for that, one executioner is quite suf¬ 
ficient. ” 

One would think that Mr.-had had enough; 

at least every one present, except himself, thought 
so. He would still continue the argument, however ; 
and, conceiving that Selwyn’s ammunition was ex¬ 
pended, he once more breasted himself up in de¬ 
fiance, or, rather, he persevered in deprecating the 
sarcastic humour of his persecutor. But the latter had 
still a shot in his locker, which, being well aimed, 
winged the oculist, and he effected a speedy re¬ 
treat. 

“Mr. Selwyn,” said Mr.-, “your opinions 

are certainly the most singular, and, let me add, un¬ 
just, that I ever heard uttered : and if I may be per¬ 
mitted to adduce my own professional conduct as a 
practical refutation of them, I would say, without any 
boast of disinterestedness, that whatever detriment I 
may suffer by the loss of fees, I invariably advise 
those patients whom I cannot further assist, to adjourn 
to the country, the sea-side, or to some watering- 
place. There, I recommend them to the care of some 
eminent practitioner on the spot.” 

“Doubtless! doubtless!” replied Selvvyn; “ you 
take care to recommend them to one who, in his turn, 
will recommend you ; just in the same manner as the 
landlord of the Bed Lion in one town, recommends 
the publican of the Black Lion in another. 

“ I remember a fat, hypochondriacal clothier at Bath, 
who, after drinking the waters for several seasons, be- 




SELWYNIANA. 


113 


came very fidgetty and troublesome to his physician; 
and the latter, as the only means of getting rid of him 
for a time, advised him to try the hot wells at Bristol. 
The patient, of course supposing that such a change 
of air and water would contribute to ease his malady, 
instantly acceded to the proposition, and received 
from the physician a letter addressed to a brother Ga¬ 
len at Bristol; in which, he said, his case was fully 
described. Having received his despatches , the manu¬ 
facturer got into his carriage and started. 

“ When he had proceeded about half-way, however, 
a fit of the maladie imaginaire came on him so strong, 
as to excite his curiosity to know the doctor’s real 
opinion of his disorder ; accordingly, calling for tea at 
an inn on the road, he held the letter over the spout 
of the tea-kettle, the steam issuing from which, speed¬ 
ily dissolved the wafer, and he read as follows :— 

4 Dear Sir, 

6 The hearer is a fat Wiltshire clothier:—make 
the most of him ivhilst he remains at Bristol , as I 
have done at Bath. Towards the end of autumn , 
you may send him hack for the winter ; and I shall 
manage in such a manner , as to give you another 
turn next summer. 

Your’s truly , #c.’ 

u This letter proved a complete cathartic to the 
clothier: and put an end to all his hypochondriacal va¬ 
garies ; for he ordered his coachman to turn the horses’ 
heads round, and he drove home into Wiltshire, damn¬ 
ing all physicians, quacks, apothecaries, and hot wells.” 

Mr. -, having by this time lost all temper $nd 

K 2 



114 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON". 


patience, arose from his seat, and when the peals o' 
laughter had partially subsided, he declared that he 
never before was so insulted in his life ; and that were 
jt not for the disparity of his own and Mr. Selwyn’s 
age, the latter should find that a medical man could re¬ 
sent an affront as readily as any other person. 

“Being fully aware of that/’ retorted George, “I 
have no inclination to encounter such awful odds; for, 
if your pistol were to miss fire, how could I stand the 
'explosion of a whole apothecary’s shop ?” 

The Duke and others endeavoured to restore har¬ 
mony, but in vain; for the oculist’s feelings were wound¬ 
ed, and he left the house in high dudgeon. 


A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


115 


XIII. 

A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 

Several gentlemen, at Boodle’s, appeared one 
evening to be greatly amused by the writer’s descrip¬ 
tion of an eccentric character, who resides in the 
neighbourhood of Brighton, named Buckhorse. 

This man, by successful traffic in horses for many 
years, had amassed together a considerable sum of mo¬ 
ney. His riches, however, imparted to him none of 
that amenity and good manners which they generally 
do on men of, even slender, education. He has always 
remained perfectly illiterate ; and is, consequently, at 
this day, as coarse and saucy in his habits and conver¬ 
sation, as when he commenced his career as a stable- 
boy. Notwithstanding this, however, he fancies that 
wealth entitles him to a rank in society, which birth 
and education, only, can confer; and he is ever on the 
qui vive to imitate the manners of the great, and the 
language of the learned,—to the infinite amusement of 
the inhabitants and visiters of Brighton, who occasion¬ 
ally associate with him, in order to draw him out and 
laugh at his eccentricities. 

From the continual blunders which he makes in 
attempting to express himself in highly sounding lan¬ 
guage, it might be supposed that Buckhorse is a stu¬ 
pid ignoramus in every thing which does not regard 
the condition of a horse : not so, however; for, though 


116 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


able only to make his mark , he is feelingly alive to the 
prospect of gain, from whatever source it may arise ; 
and he can calculate that gain, by a sort of intuitive or 
mental arithmetic, even to the utmost farthing. He is, 
moreover, a perfect Master of Arts in all that profes¬ 
sional cunning which is so characteristic of the knights 
of the stall and the corn-bin; as will be fully exempli¬ 
fied in some of the following anecdotes. 

A few years ago, Buckhorse was severely attacked 
by rheumatism ; and, after trying a variety of reme¬ 
dies, was at last persuaded by the writer, who had 
some dealings with him at the time, to undergo a sham¬ 
pooing—On inquiring what was the cause of his dis¬ 
order, Buckhorse replied as follows:— 

“ Vy, ye see, Sir, I vent on a Aquatic execution on 
the hocean, wi’ my vife and some other ladies and 
gen’lemen, and it blew the tremendyusest gale as nev¬ 
er was seen; so, ve vere obliged to use our hoars; and 
I thinks, that from prespiring and fartigue, I took cold 
in my lines ; but my Missus says as how the rheuma- 
tise corned by catching cold from being scroudged in 
the pit, to see Kean hact the Merchant o’ Wenus, and 
being afterwards hexposed to the veather and the hele- 
ments, on our road ’ome. ” 

“But have you done nothing to get rid of this rheu¬ 
matism ?” inquired the writer. 

“Oh, yes !” replied Buckhorse, “I’ve took lots o’ 
potecary’s stuff, and ’ave been on a coolin’ regiment 
this fortnight; for I’aven’t drank no wynd nor any 
spiritual and fomented liquors whatsomever: but it’s 
no use, bless you, for I’m worn to a shador,—a mere 
skelinton,—and the rheumatise is as bad as ever ; so, I 


A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


117 


thinks I ’m a goin’ to the regency (regions) below, as 
fast as I can.” 

“ Pooh ! nonsense !” said the writer, “ you must 
get shampooed ; that is the proper method of getting 
rid of your complaint.” 

Buckhorse promised to follow this friendly advice 
without delay. 

Meeting him a few days afterwards, the writer in¬ 
quired how his health was, and whether he had found 
benefit from the vapour baths. 

Buckhorse replied: “ Lord bless you, Sir, them 
'ere baths are no good : I got quite pieboiled by that 
black fellow,—that savage Hingeon , Molly-nooks, 
who squeedged and kneaded me about, like a lump 
o’ biscuit-baker’s dough. I couldn’t a-bear it no long¬ 
er ; so, I disgarded him.” 

“But has Molyneux done you no good ?” 

“ Lord bless you, Sir ! no more than nothin’ at all.” 

“But you ought to go to Mahommed ; he has cured 
many persons, and is well known as a clever man.” 

“ Lord bless, you, mjr dear Sir, I can’t a-bear them 
’ere Hingeon canibals. I made such a diskivery about 
’em, that I vonder as how the King lets ’em live in a 
Christian country.” 

“What !” observed the writer, laughing heartily, 
“ you are surely not afraid of being killed and eaten ?” 

“An’t I though !—vy, the landlord o’ the Ship 
told me in a great secret, the day afore yesterday, as 
how them ’ere ’Ottenpot chaps, Molly-nooks and 
Mahometan, knocked their customers about, and byld 
’em alive in steam, in order to make their flesh tender : 
and that ven the poor devils kicked the bucket, the 
insurrection fellows brought ’em back to these here 


118 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


Hingeons to be cut up for German saasages ; and to be 
byled over again, bones and all, to make merry-go- 
tawney soup, to be sent abroad to their black ’Otten- 
pot relations, the nigger wagabones, in the Vest Hin- 
gees.” 

“Why, Buckhorse, you are surely not such a fool 
as to believe all that silly nonsense '!” replied the wri¬ 
ter, still laughing : “ take my advice, my good fellow, 
go to Mahommed and be shampooed properly : that 
is the sure and only method of getting rid of your 
rheumatism ; and don’t be frightened at such bugbears^ 
as these wags choose to conjure up.” 

The horse-dealer having some respect for the wri¬ 
ter’s opinion and advice, and being moreover urged 
by pain from his disorder, visited Mahommed without 
delay, and in a short time he completely recovered. 

Meeting him soon afterwards, the writer inquired 
how he got on ; when he broke out in the most hy¬ 
perbolic praise of his Indian physician. 

“Oh ! what a nice man that ’ere Mister Mahome¬ 
tan is, sure-ly!—he bamboozled me twenty-eight times, 
at a guinea a time ; and now I’m as hearty as a buck. 
I heats four pork saasages, or a couple o’ rashers bryl- 
ed, every mornin’ for my dejoon;—I ’as a good slice 
o’ Westfaily ham,—about ’alf a pound or there away, 
—and a couple o’ nice heggs, for lunch, wi’ a can o’ 
glorious home-brewed.—Me and Missus sits down to 
dinner at three, and we pegs away in grand style,— 
for I always ’ad a good happetite for my dinner, sick 
or well; and I drinks a bottle o’ good port to my own 
cheek,—for Missus likes ’Ollands and vater ;—veil, 
at supper, I ’as a nice rump-steak, or pork-chop, bryl- 
ed on the gridiron, and after a snecker o’ strong har 


A BRIGHTON ODDITV, 


119 


rack punch, to warm my stomach, I goes to beck—Lord 
bless you ! vhen I was so bad vith the rheumatise, I 
couldn’t heat nor drink nothin’ at all,—not even half 
o’ that ere ; but now I’m quite charmin’, and I feels 
such a nungry fit now and then, that I could heat an 
’oss behind the saddle, or heven a live cat stooed wi’ 
hingans.—Only think o’ the vonderful vorks o’ na- 
tur!” 

“ I am glad to hear you are so well, Mr. Buckhorse ; 
but, do you still retain the opinion that Mahommed 
is a canibalV ’ 

“Lord bless you, Sir, no ! that vas a noax ; Mister 
Mahometan is as nice a fellor as ever breathed under 
Heaven’s canipup; and vhat’s more nor that, he gave 
me an order for an ’oss. He’s such a good fellor, by 
G—d ! that I means to shew my /ingratitude by get¬ 
ting him a nunter.” 

The horse-dealer’s sense of gratitude and goodfeel¬ 
ing towards Mahommed will be seen in the sequel:— 
the latter wanted a good riding-horse for about sixty 
guineas ; but Buckhorse felt the jockey rise within 
him, and honesty, friendship, and honour, were put to 
flight. 

After two or three weeks’ delay, during which he 
pretended to Mahommed that his servants were search¬ 
ing all the fairs around, he told him that every effort 
to procure him u an ’igh bred ’unter” had failed; and 
that he was therefore afraid he should be obliged to 
part with a favourite horse of his own, which he would 
sooner “die than give up to any other person under 
the canipup of heaven, except his dear friend, Mister 
Mahometan.” 

Accordingly, the shampooer visited Buckhorse’s li- 


120 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


very stables ; and the latter ordered a good-looking 
horse to be brought out: this animal, however, had 
been entirely made up for sale, for he was spavined, 
glandered, and broken-winded.—The dealer, on this 
occasion, thus addressed his partner :— 

“I say, Jobson, bring out that ’ere ’oss ; but, for 
God’s sake, don’t let me see the going of him : he’s a 
noble hanimal, and I made a hoath, when I bought 
him, never to part wi’ him ; but, to oblige my dear 
friend, Mister Mahometan, who bamboozled me so 
well, he shall ’ave him, though it breaks my wery 
heart to part wi’ him. So, bring the poor thing out, 
Jobson ; but I can’t a-bear to stop to see the last on 
him.—I hopes, Mister Mahometan, that you ’ll use 
him well; for he’s a gallows good un to go, and as 
beautiful a creetur as ever I see!” 

Away went the hypocritical rogue, exclaiming, “ O 
Lord ! 0 Lord ! that I should live to see the day of 
parting wi’ that ’ere fine hanimal!” And away went 
poor Mahommed with his precious bargain. 

“By dint of the whip and spur, the latter arrived 
at Brighton ; but although his new master treated him 
with the utmost gentleness, and notwithstanding his 
late owner’s hyperbolical praise, he turned out to be 
good for nothing ! At length, poor Mahommed was 
obliged to sell him for Three Guineas , to feed the 
hounds !” 


Buckhorse, though, as already stated, as illiterate 
as any of the quadrupeds in his own stables, at one 
time took it into his head that his parlour-table would 
be graced by placing thereupon a large family Bible : 
accordingly, he employed a friend, an auctioneer, to 



A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


12fl 

procure the same for him at some sale ; enjoining him, 
at the same time, to be sure to get “a good un and 
beautifully bound. 7 '' 

“And I tell you what, Sam, 77 continued he; 
“whilst you are about it, better kill two birds wi 7 one 
stone. If you can buy me a couple of chevaliers for 
my chimley piece, good and cheap, my dear fellor, 
with a noblix * in the centre, and a few fine marvel 
statutes and picturs to stick about the 7 ouse, 1 7 11 be 
so much obliged to you, my dear fellor, you can 7 t 
think : but take care to let ’em be good and cheap, else 
I can’t have ’em, you know, Sam.” 

According to his instructions, the auctioneer bought 
in several ornamental articles, which he thought suit¬ 
able for the decoration of the interior of Buckhorse’s 
domicile ; but, as ill-luck would have it, he could not 
readily lay his hand on any second-hand Bible which, 
in regard to binding, he thought good enough for his 
friend. 

A gentleman’s library, however, coming under the 
hammer, the thought struck him, as he surveyed a 
shelf of folios, that one of these volumes would an¬ 
swer the horse-dealer’s purpose equally well with the 
best copy of the Holy Scriptures that ever issued from 
the presses of Oxford or Cambridge : besides this, he 
had a strong desire to play Buekhorse a trick. Accord¬ 
ingly, he picked out Boyer’s French dictionary, em¬ 
bellished with a dashing frontispiece, displaying the 
head of the author, and surrounded by miniature por¬ 
traits of the most celebrated French writers. Having 

* A chimney ornament representing an obelisk, and usually inade 
of spar, or black marble. 

VOL. I. L 


122 


THE CLtfBS OP LONDON. 


packed the book up with the chandeliers, bust3, &c., 
he sent the whole to Buckhorse’s residence. 

The latter, proud of his new pieces of finery, soon 
displayed them in their proper places ; but unfortu¬ 
nately, whilst exhibiting his purchase to a neighbour, 
a few days afterwards, smash went the centre orna¬ 
ment and one of the chandeliers ! 

In the mean time, the auctioneer did not choose to 
call for payment, fearful that his trick respecting the 
dictionary might have been discovered, and, of course, 
anticipating a severe reprimand ; but he was soon re¬ 
lieved from this suspense, by the horse-dealer calling 
on him to relate the misfortune above mentioned. 

“My dear Sam,” said he, “such a haccident ! 
you ’ve no idear !” 

“ What accident, Mr. Buckhorse ?” inquired the 
auctioneer, apprehensive that it had some reference to 
the Bible-hoax. 

“My dear fellor,” answered the horse-dealer, “ you 
know them ’ere chevaliers and that ’ere noblix !—By 
the Lord ! they’re smashed, Sam !” 

“ You don’t say so ?” returned Sam, thinking they 
were broken during carriage. 

“ By the Lord Harry ! Sam, but they are done for,” 

responded Buckhorse ; “and vhat’s w'orse, Nanny,_ 

that ’ere b—h of a maid o’ mine, as is always in mis¬ 
chief o’ some sort,—smashed that ’ere beautiful naked 
heffigy of the Wenus of Medicine as stood on the pedes- 
tral in the corner, and broke the poor thing’s nose: 
she shoved her down wi’ the broom handle. I could 
almost cry, Sam, for that ’ere darling himage; she look¬ 
ed so lovely and fascerating, that my wery mouth 
watered at the sight of her dear legs and harms. But 


A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


123 


I dare say, Sam, as I’m quite a connoiseurer in them 
'ere things, as how you can get me another Wenus to 
put in her place?” 

“Perhaps I can,” returned Sam ; “but how were 
the chandelier and obelisk broken ? I assure you that 
I packed them very carefully.” 

“ I know you did, my dear fellor,” interrupted the 
horse-dealer; “but ye see, as I vas a showing them 
to my neighbour, Squire Wilkins, he, like a stoopid, 
being elibrated with wynd and other spiritual and 
fomented liquors, just after dinner, you know, lets 
’em fall on the hearth. It was so agrivoking,* Sam, 
3 r ou can’t think ; and Missus is so mad as I don’t 
make the Squire pay the damage : but that wouldn’t 
be genteel, Sam, would it ?” 

“ By no means,” returned the auctioneer. 

“Not,” continued Buckhorse, “that I could not 
make him pay the damage I have substained, mind 
me, Sam ; but I likes to do the genteel thing. How- 
somever, if Wilkins, as Missus says, wur a gentle¬ 
man, he would make volitary destitution , without 
more ado.” 

“True, Mr. Buckhorse,” returned the auctioneer, 
“but it is not worth thinking about ; for, I dare say, 
I can replace the articles for about the same money.” 

“ Wery well, Sam, do so, my dear fellor ; and 
while ye’re about it, try and get me a large chevalier 
to be expended from the drawing-room ceiling, just 
like Sir John Shelley’s, you know; and then ve ’ll be 
quite the tippy. Let it be cheap tho’.” 

“Oh, certainly,” said the sly auctioneer; who, per- 


* Compound of aggravating and provoking. 


J’ilK CLUBS OF LONDON. 


124 


ceiving that he might safely change the subject, asked 
the horse-dealer, “ How he liked his folio Bible ?” 

“ Oh, my dear fellor, I never had such a Bible in 

my life as that ’ere ; Pave read it all over from be- 

* <• 

ginning to bend ; and the print is so large, that it’s 
quite hedifying. it really is a capital Bible ; but as 
for the pictur, I never in my life see such a beautiful 
likeness o’ Jesus Christ and his'hangels ! I vas cer¬ 
tain it vas a wery waleable work the moment I set. 
eyes on it. 7 ' 1 


By his traffic in horse-flesh, of which no dealer in 
Sussex was a better judge, and by occasional betting 
at Lewes and other races, Buclchorse, in the course 
of a few years, accumulated a very large sum of mo¬ 
ney ; and in order to support the respectability which 
he supposed his riches conferred on him, he resolved 
to commit the active part of his business to his part¬ 
ner, and to set up a carriage. 

In order to be quite genteel, he desired the coach- 
maker to build him one, (6 spick-and-span newal¬ 
though several were shown to him of handsome pat¬ 
tern which had just been finished. 

“No, no,” said Buckhorse by goles ! I von’t 
stand that ’ere : I ’ll have my own wehicle, or none ; 
and I ’ll have such a set of ’ osses , as were never seen 
in these here parts ; as beautiful ereeturs as ever the 
breath o’ life was put into: and as I intends to go on 
a tower to Lunnun, I ’ll ’ave a coachman and footman 
for Missus in reglar livery, vith eplogues on their 
shoulders. So ye see, Mister Tomkins, if so be as 
you likes to make me a hequipage, as is the superior 
thing, I ’ll ’ave it and pay for it: if not, vhy, ye see, 
I ’ll send to Lunnun, that’s all.” 



A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


125 


Not wishing to lose so good an order, Tomkins set 
to work, and soon produced a very handsome carriage. 
He informed Buckhorse that all was ready for starting, 
except the coat of arms , which he desired might be 
furnished without delay, in order to be painted on the 
pannels. This was a poser ; but Buckhorse soon found 
out a method of supplying the deficiency, by going 
on the Lewes race-course, and carefully inspecting 
all the equipages, in order to choose the handsomest! 

At length, he fixed upon that of Sir John Shelley 
(whom, by the by, he wished to rival on more occa¬ 
sions than one ;) but the coach-builder refused point- 
blank to commit so gross a piracy, dreading of course 
a prosecution from the Heralds’ College. This de¬ 
cided the affair ; for Buckhorse now swore that he 
would not have the carriage, “He’d see him d—d 
first!” 


Although in his own avocations, and indeed in any 
case where there was a prospect of gain, no man dis¬ 
played more acuteness than Buckhorse ; still, in any 
thing beyond his proper sphere, our horse-dealer was 
as completely at sea, as his inveterate habit of using 
high sounding words and phrases, and his ambition, 
to appear genteel, could carry him. This, on many 
occasions, produced a charming confusion of ideas, 
to the great entertainment of his auditory. 

He was particularly fond of using the word “mil¬ 
lion” although he had not the least idea of the value 
of this high number. Not only would he say, u a 
million of thanks! a million of blessings !” but he 
likewise applied the word to matters of greater im¬ 
portance. 

l 2 



126 


THE CLUBS OE LONDON. 


On one occasion, whilst bestowing the most hyper¬ 
bolical praises on a hat which he had bought at Brigh¬ 
ton, he thus addressed the shopkeeper who sold it 
to him : “ Make a million of ’em, my dear fellor, 
and put ’em in your windur; only call ’em the 
Buckhorse hats , and you’ll sell a million a-day, by 
G—d !” 


At a time when the Brighton Banks were in a tot¬ 
tering state, and when the gentlemen of the neigh¬ 
bourhood were subscribing towards their support, our 
horse-dealer was determined not to be behind-hand in 
displaying his munificence. Accordingly, he called at 
one of these money-shops, where he kept an account, 
and said, “I am wery sorry, gen’lemen, to see such 
a conquest * o’ people about your doors : I had such 
a contrast t in squeedging my way through, you can’t 
think. Vy don’t ye read the riot hact, and send for a 
couple o’ hofficers to have them ’ere scamps put in 
the cage ?” 

“We have neither the wish nor the power to do 
that, Mr. Buckhorse,” replied one of the partners. 

“ And vy not,” returned the horse-dealer. “ But, 
never mind :—I ’ll hextricate you from all your diffi¬ 
culties : I means to support the ’ouse. How much 
money do ye want, my boys ?” 

<( We are greatly obliged to you, Mr. Buckhorse ; 
whatever sum you please,” said one of the gentle¬ 
men, producing a book, which he placed on the desk 
before him, and at the same time offering him a 
pen. 

“ Never mind writing, my dear fellor,” returned 

f Contest. 


* Concourse. 



A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


127 


Buckhorse ; only say the word : how much do ye 
want ?” 

“ I beg, Sir, to leave that to your goodness,” re¬ 
plied the Banker, again offering him the pen ; “our 
friends write their names in this book, and put the 
sum which they propose to accommodate us with,— 
in case we should require assistance,—in the column 
opposite.” 

“ Wery good plan, Mister Thingumy—wery good 
plan,” returned the horse-dealer: “but, d’ye see, 
since I had the rheumatise so bad, I can’t write a 
line, bless you. Do you put my name down: it’s all 
the same, you know.” 

“With pleasure, Mr. Buckhorse,” replied the 
Banker : “ how much shall I say, Sir ?” 

“ Put me down for a million /” answered the 
horse-dealer, slapping the Banker violently on the 
back. 

“ A what ?” exclaimed the latter, starting with 
amazement, and rubbing his shoulder which smarted 
with the blow, at the same time that his countenance 
betokened both pain and displeasure at this rude mode 
of having a favour conferred upon him—“a what?” 
he again exclaimed. 

“Why, a million , to be sure, my boy,” returned 
Buckhorse : “don’t I speak plain Henglish?—Ah, I 
thought I’d surprise you;—but never mind—I’ll 
prop you up—I ’ll support you through thick and 
thin.” 

“ The partners, who were well aware of his cha¬ 
racter, could not help smiling at the horse-dealer’s 
vanity and boasted patronage. At length one of them 
said : “ Mr. Buckhorse, we are greatly obliged to you : 


12S 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


but a sum far short of a million will be quite suffi¬ 
cient ; for, thanks to our friends, we are well backed- 
and can have any sum we may want, at the shortest no- 
tice: but, in keeping this book open for signature, we 
are more anxious to give our friends an opportunity of 
showing their good will, than from any idea that we 
shall be compelled to trouble them. Now, if you 
will be good enough to look over this list, you will 
see the several sums which our friends have sub¬ 
scribed.” 

“Do you read it, my dear fellor—do you read it,” 
said Buckhorse.—“I left my spectikles at home, and 
I can’t read a vord vithout ’em.” 

“Nor with ’em, you illiterate dog !” whispered the 
first partner, still rubbing his shoulder. 

The Banker now began to read, and when he came 
to the name of Sir John Shelley, Buckhorse exclaim¬ 
ed, “ Ah ! how much did he give ? I’ll beat ’im, ha- 
ny ’ow.” 

“ Sir John is down for 300/. Sir,” replied the Bank¬ 
er. 

“Veil, put me down 350/. ; I should like to know 
That Sir John vill say to that,” said Buckhorse, giving 
the other partner a hearty slap over the nape of the 
neck, which brought his nose down into the ink-stand, 
—against the leaden rim of which his forehead was 
considerably bruised. 

The Banker, raising his head, appeared like the 
knight of the rueful countenance. He drew his hand¬ 
kerchief from his pocket to wipe off the ink, and was 
about to expostulate with Buckhorse, when the latter 
begged pardon, saying it was all ‘ haccidenV and that 
he was ‘wery sorry' 


A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


123 

This apology was of course accepted ; and the head 
partner, having wiped the mark of Cain from his fore¬ 
head, though he wished the horse-dealer at the devil, 
invited him, with several other friends who had called 
on the same errand, to dinner. Buckhorse was no¬ 
thing loath ; and, as was his custom on such occasions, 
he had, as he himself elegantly expressed it, u a regu¬ 
lar blow out.” 

During this repast, and whilst swallowing bumper 
after bumper, he gave the Banker repeated assurances 
of farther support; but alternated his munificent pro¬ 
mises with frequent annoying questions as to the state 
of their affairs, and whether “ Mr. Thingumy thought 
he would be able to stand the run ?” 

The Banker was of course heartily tired with the 
impertinence of his guest; and, though by no means 
communicative, at length became so testy, that Buck- 
horse suspected a bankruptcy. He had sufficient cun¬ 
ning, however, to conceal his suspicion ; but, just as 
he was about to depart, what was the Banker’s sur¬ 
prise to hear him demand gold for some notes of the 
firm, amounting to forty-six pounds l 

“ Gold ! my good Sir,” echoed the money-changer, 
who most likely had not half that number of sove¬ 
reigns in his house.—“ Why, Mr. Buckhorse, I thought 
you meant to support us ?” 

“ So I do, my dear fellor ; and I ’ll put down my 
name for ten millions , if you want ’em,” replied the 
horse-dealer. “But you see, Mr. Thingumy, my 
neighbours are the most suspiciousest set of rascals un¬ 
der the canipup of heaven, and not one of ’em, by 
G—d ! will take a Brighton note ; so ye see, them 
’ere flimsies o’ yours an’t worth twopence ; more pe-. 


130 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


ticlary, as I have to pay on the nail for some hay and 
corn for the ’osses, besides a longish bill for ’pottica- 
ry’s stuff and gin for Missus.—13ut I tell ye what, I 
von’t be ’ard ; gi ’e me Bank-of-Englanders : I’m 
bio wed if the scamps dare refuse them, any how ; 
b—st’em !” 

In order to put an end to this disagreeable palaver, 
the Banker was compelled to untie a parcel of notes 
just received from Thread-needle-street, and he ex¬ 
changed some of them for his own, with as good grace 
as the desire of not offending a rich customer enabled 
him to assume. 

But what was his astonishment, and how great his 
vexation, when his cunning guest, the next day, ac¬ 
companied by his partner Jobson, drew out of the 
Bank a balance which he had there of 1500/./ saying, 
he was “ wery sorry to disappint their hexpecta- 
tions,” and that, although he should be happy to lend 
them 66 millions upon millions , it vas necessary to be 
circumspectious ; for he vas afeard they could not 
stand their ground. ” 

“ There is your balance, Mr. Buckhorse,” said his 
host of yesterday, counting out, and indignantly hand¬ 
ing over 1500/. in Bank notes—“ there is your ba¬ 
lance, Sir—count it.” 

“Veil ! if I didn’t alvays say as you were a good 
honest fellor, after all,” returned the horse-dealer. 
“I vonder vhat the scamps means by saying that 
‘you’r a goin’.—I tell you vhat, Mister Thingumy, 
I don’t vish to put you to hinconveenence, because I 
bean’t in haxyal (actual) vant q 1 the stuff\ but ye 
see, if so be-” 

“Very well, Sir,” interrupted the Banker, highly 



A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


131 


piqued, “you are welcome to leave the cash, if you 
please, or to take it with you ; just as you like.—I 
have no objection to enter it again in the book.” 

“Wery well,” returned Buckhorse ; “if so be as 
you can gi’e me hundeceptional s’curity in these here 
dangerous times, vy, d’ ye see, 1’ve no hobjection to 
leave the flimsies wi’ ye.” 

“ You be d—d !” replied the Banker, amidst a roar 
of laughter among the customers at the counter. 

“Oh, wery well !” returned Buckhorse ; “as ye’re 
so saacy, vy, d’ ye see, I von’t leave ’em at all : so, 
good morning to ye, Mr. Thingumbob !” 

“Good morning, Sir,” returned the irritated Bank¬ 
er; “I hope never to see your face in my office 
again.” 

“Hookey !” replied Buckhorse, turning round and 
placing his forefinger significantly on his nose, “1 
dosen’t mean it; if you catches me in this here shop 
again, call me donkey, that’s all.—I’ve no notion o’ 
your himpert’nence, Mister Vipper-snapper.” 

Away he went, but returned in about ten minutes, 
saying, “Veil now, Mr. Thingumbob, I dare say as 
how you thinks me a hoaf, but I means to show you 
that I an’t no such thing. Vhat’s the use o’ these 
here screens * o’ yours ? nobody ’ll take ’em, so you 
must ’ave ’em back, they ’re no use to nobody.” 

“What do you mean, Mr. Buckhorse, by pestering 
us in this manner, when you see us so busy ?” demand¬ 
ed the Banker. 

“Vy I’m wery glad to see ye so busy, Mister 
Thingumy, and long continivance to it,” replied Buck¬ 
horse, sneeringly, as he looked towards the crowd 

* Cant word for Bank-notes. 


132 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


who were elbowing their way into the office. “But 
first come first sarved, all over the world, you know ; 
so, ye see, as ye ’re so obstropolous, I vants England¬ 
ers for these here.” 

“Then you must wait,” returned the Banker, bounc¬ 
ing to the other end of the counter. 

“Veil !—If I han’t ’stonished at your himprence,” 
exclaimed Buckhorse ; “ but it shows your broughtins 
up, any how ; and I must compute it to your higno- 
rance.—Ah ! you may laugh, my worthies,” (address¬ 
ing the gentlemen who stood in the shop to give the 
proprietors countenance, by offering bank of England 
notes in exchange for those of the firm,) “ but you ’ll 
seethe end on ’t afore long. Only just look at the 
hingratitude o’ them ’ere chaps for me keeping ’em 
out o’ their troubles : warn’t I yesterday all of a pre- 
spiration wi’ squeedging and scroudging through them 
’ere hoceans o’ customers o’ theirs—and all for what ? 
why, to put my name down in that ’ere book for three- 
hundred-and-fifty pound, b-st ’em !” 

“And you are welcome to take your name out as 
soon as you please,” replied one of the partners, high¬ 
ly nettled ; at the same time seizing up the book, and 
drawing his pen through Buckhorse’s name ; “there, 
Sir,” he continued, “ we don’t want your assistance.” 

“ Don’t ye,” returned the horse-dealer; “ veil then, 
gi’ me the Englanders for this here paper o’ your’s, 
and see if ever I take one o’ your screens again :— 
that I von’t, never no more, as sure as my name’s 

Jem Buckhorse !” 

* 

“You must wait your turn, Sir,” replied the Banker. 

“And ’owlong must I vait, pray ?” inquired Buck¬ 
horse. 



I3‘3 


A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 

tl Can’t say, perhaps two hours,” returned the mo¬ 
ney-changer. 

‘‘Two hours!” exclaimed the horse-dealer, “vy, 
you humbug, vhat do you mean by that ’ere hinso- 
lence ?—Oh ! I see as how it’s all a manoover, a reg’- 
lar do ;—but I von’t stand no nonsense from ne’er a 
screen malefactor in the ’nited kingdoms o’ France or 
Hireland, nor of Hingland to boot. I only axes for my 
own, and my own I ’ll ’ave, or I ’ll know for why.” 

“You are very troublesome, Sir,” observed the 
Banker ; “and, if you cannot hold your peace, I must 
send for a constable.” 

“ Vill you, by G—d ? I should like to see that ’ere. 
I axes you civilly afore these yere suspectible vitnes- 
ses, and in the name o’ his majesty King George and 
the Parliament, vither you intends immedately, and 
vithout no more ado, to gi’ me Lunnun notes for these 
here rags o’ your’s,—every von on ’em ? If ye don’t, 
I’ll sarve ye wi’ a sassarara ,* and have ye arrang¬ 
ed and parsecuted according to law, that’s all.” 

The friends of the house who stood by, although 
nearly convulsed with laughter, now interfered : they 
had all along endeavoured to mollify him by whispers, 
and tried to smooth down his irascibility; but at length 
they saw it was high time to stop the current of his 
dangerous abuse, by offering to exchange the paper. 

“ Come, come, Mr. Buckhorse,” said one of these 
gentlemen, “there is no use in being so furious; 
you seem to be in a hurry, and as the bankers are too 
busy to attend to you, I don’t mind accommodating 
you with a hundred pounds myself.” 

* Writ of Certiorari. t Arraigned. 


yoL. i. 


M 


134 


THE CLTTBS OF LONDON. 


“ And I ’ll do a couple of hundreds more,” said an¬ 
other. 

“ I don’t mind changing three hundred,” said a 
third. 

“ Vill you, by G—d ?” exclaimed Buckhorse. “Up¬ 
on my soul, gen’Iemen, I’m wery much obliged to 
you—and having effected the exchange, he added, 
“I vish ye joy on ’em, gen’Iemen, and vould advise 
ye to get rid of ’em as soon as ye can ; for by G—d, 
I vouldn’t give a farden a bushel for ’em !” 

This last hit was so intolerable, that to prevent far¬ 
ther annoyance, the head partner neglected every 
other person to attend to Buckhorse; to whom, with 
a most angry frown, he counted out the requisite num¬ 
ber of Bank of England notes. The latter pocketed 
the cash with the greatest sang-froid; and as he was 
elbowing his way out, exclaimed to the crowd, “ That’s 
your sort, my hearties; change your flimsies as fast as 
you can: they have lots of Englanders,—I ? ve got 
mine, howsomever: so the Devil take the hindmost.” 

But, alas! poor Buckhorse did not bear off the 
palm so triumphantly as he expected. In passing 
through the crowd, to whom he thus foolishly gave 
information respecting his treasure, his pocket was 
picked of his favourite Englanders; which he was 
never able to recover: for, being ignorant of the num¬ 
bers, his blundering vanity and overbearing insolence, 
of course, prevented the irritated bankers from afford¬ 
ing him the least assistance in tracing them. 

The above-mentioned loss preyed heavily on the 
mind of Buckhorse for a long time ; but at the period 
of its occurrence, his health, which was before but in- 



A BRIGHTON ODDITY. 


135 


different, became so sensibly affected, that he took to 
his bed, and after a few days made up his mind that 
he should die. Accordingly, he sent for the clergy¬ 
man of his parish, (although he had never been in the 
habit of going to church, nor of attending to religious 
duties of any sort,) and wished to have the sacrament 
administered to him; thinking that this would not on¬ 
ly be a panacea for all his sins, but likewise a passport 
into Heaven ! 

After a few preliminary compliments, the clergy¬ 
man said to him, “ Well, Mr. Buckhorse, I hope you 
have set your house in order previous to receiving 
the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.” 

“ Vhy, that is true, parson,” replied the sick man ; 
“the ’ouse is no great shakes, and as to horder, every 
thing is topsy-turvy since I took to my bed; b—st 
both missus and maid, say I ; but if I only get up and 
about, see how I’ll sarve ’em out!” Then, elevating 
his voice, he cried aloud to the servant, “Nanny, you 
d—d dirty b—h ! call your missus down, and clear 
the ’ouse up, both o’ ye; I ’ll be d—d if the wery par¬ 
son doesn’t see that it’s hout of order. 

The clergyman, seeing that the invalid was not in 
a fit state for receiving the holy sacrament, explained 
to him the nature of the rite, and having conjured him 
to give up profane swearing, &c., and to think of a 
future state, bade him good morning, saying he would 
call again when his mind was more composed. 

Buckhorse replied, “ Wery well, good bye, my dear 
Sir, God Almighty bless you !—next time you come 
I shall have the whole ’ouse scoured down from top 
to bottom !” 


13$ THE EEFBS OF EONDOfr, 


ROGER WILBRAHAM AND SIR PHILIP 

FRANCIS. 

The late Sir Philip Francis, who, during many 
years of his life, was a member of the House of Com¬ 
mons, spoke on all questions of importance on the 
side of Opposition. He was the convivial companion 
of Fox, and, during the short administration of that 
statesman, was made a Knight of the Bath. 

Roger Wilbraham, w T ho was also on the same side, 
came up one evening to the whist table, at Brookes*s, 
where Sir Philip, w 7 ho for the first time wore the rib¬ 
bon of the order, w T as seriously engaged in the mid¬ 
dle of a rubber; and thus accosted him. 

Laying hold of the ribbon, and examining it for. 
some time before he spoke, he said : “ So this is the 
way they have rewarded you at last ; they have given 
you a little bit of red ribbon for your services, Sir 
Philip, have they ? A pretty bit of red ribbon to 
hang about your neck ;—and that satisfies you, does 
it? Now I wonder what I shall have.—What do you 
think they will give me, Sir Philip ?” 

The newly-made Knight, who had twenty-five 
guineas depending on the rubber, and who was not 
very well pleased at the interruption, suddenly turned 
round, and casting on him a ferocious look, exclaimed. 
i( A halter, and be d—d to you P* 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


137 


XV. 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD, (continued.) 

As some farther* account of this extraordinary and 
wayward individual may not be unacceptable to the 
reader, he is here presented with a short sketch of the 
principal actions of his life. 

George Robert Fitzgerald was the eldest son of Mr. 
Fitzgerald, of Rockfield, near Castlebar, in Ireland, 
by Lady Mary Heryey, sister to the Earl of Bristol. 
He was educated at Eton, and at Trinity College, 
Dublin ; and his knowledge of the classics, and other 
branches of polite literature, was pretty much on a par 
with that of other young gentlemen of his age and pe¬ 
riod. That his talents were above contempt, may be 
seen by a poem entitled “ The Riddle ,” inscribed by 
him to Lord Earlsfort, afterwards Lord Chief Justice 
of the King’s Bench, in Ireland. 

Whilst at Trinity College, where duelling was so 
common that an affair of honour of some sort gene¬ 
rally preceded Morning Prayers, it will be supposed 
that a man of Fitzgerald’s disposition could not long 
avoid having a finger in the pie ;—this supposition, 
however, would not be strictly correct; for, although 
he engaged in various quarrels with his fellow-stu- 

* This account should have been printed before, see page 33, 
blit was mislaid until the intermediate sheets were worked off. Ed. 

M 2 


138 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


dents, and was once saved from death by a particular 
friend of the writer, who wrested the sword from the 
hand of his powerful antagonist, (the famous Buck 
English,) as he was about to plunge it in his back, 
after a hard chase, and at a most unfair advantage,— 
for Fitzgerald was unarmed ;—still these quarrels 
were not of his own seeking, and it was not until a 
few years afterwards that his duelling propensities 
hurst forth so luxuriantly. 

Being compelled, according to the universal custom 
of Irish gentlemen of that period, to send a challenge to 
a person of the name of Swords, for a very slight of¬ 
fence in a public assembly, the latter gentleman, by the 
first discharge of his pistol, shot off a part of Fitzger¬ 
ald’s skull, and materially injured the fore part of his 
brain. The consequence was delirium for a consider¬ 
able time ; but those who knew him intimately, are of 
opinion that he was affected by a certain aberration of 
intellect until the day of his death ; for, from the period 
of this wound, he became hot-headed, insolent, quar¬ 
relsome, cunning, and ferocious. Let modern phre¬ 
nologists account for these phenomena as they can. 

The next rencontre in which he was engaged was 
in the town of Galway, where he was with his regi¬ 
ment, having just been raised to the rank of Captain 
of Dragoons. He one day espied a pretty girl seated 
behind the counter of a tobacconist’s shop in that 
town, and under pretence of buying snuff, got into 
conversation with her. Whilst she was delivering 
his box to him, our hero seized her by the arm and 
ravished a kiss. He was proceeding to farther liber¬ 
ties, when a tall, stout man, who had witnessed the 
whole transaction from his own^vshop on the other side 


FIGHTING FITZGERALP 139 

of the street, entered and arrested his arm as he was 
pulling off the young woman’s handkerchief. 

“ Hollo ! ye villain of the world !” exclaimed the 
man, “that little girl is my own property, for I’m 
betrothed to her these five weeks ; and if any d—d 
raskal daurs to lay a finger on her, he shall fight me 
without any delay at all.” 

“ That is not so certain !” replied Fitzgerald, eyeing 
his athletic opponent: “I am a Captain in His Majes¬ 
ty’s service ; therefore, if I had given you offence, it 
is beneath the dignity of a gentleman to fight with & 
common shopkeeper, which I take you to be; there¬ 
fore, I shall wish you good morning !” 

“ Oh ! by J—s ! shopkeeper here, or jontleman 
there !” returned the man, “that won’t save ye, my 
darling. My name is Cornailius O’Brien ; I’m a lea- 
ther-cutthur by thrade ; and I ’ll have satisfaction this 
minute, or I ’ll brake every bone in yer skin. So now, 
my dear,” continued he, as he shut the door, and plac¬ 
ed his back against it, “ye’ll just be plaised to tell 
me yer good-looking name ?” 

“ I am Captain Fitzgerald, Sir, and I desire you 
instantly to open that door.” 

“Captain Fitzgerald, or Captain Divil,” replied 
O’Brien, “I’ll not do that same until ye promise to 
gi’e me satisfaction.” 

“Upon my honour ! Sir,” returned Fitzgerald, “I 
meant no affront either to you or the lady ; and if I 
have done so, I am sorry for it.” 

“By J—s ! then, my dear,” said Cornelius, “ye 
convince me that ye have no honour at all, at all ; for 
didn’t I see ye ill-thrate the darling, with my own 
eyes? therefore, as ye have toujd me a d—d lie, why, 


140 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


d’ ye see, I ’ll make ye conform to the rules of the lit¬ 
tle county Galway, by fighting me directly ; for I 
won’t take yer promise to give me satisfaction, at no 
price.” . J 

Fitzgerald, seeing that there was no alternative, set 
his invention to work how he should overcome the 
leather-cutter, or come off unhurt. Accordingly, hav¬ 
ing adjourned to a room above-stairs, he received a 
pistol from his opponent. Having tossed up for the 
first shot, which fell to O’Brien, the latter seated him¬ 
self across a table, and levelled his pistol so exactly at 
Fitzgerald’s head, that there appeared little chance of 
his escaping instant death. 

Watching his opportunity, therefore, when the 
tradesman was drawing the trigger, Captain Fitzger¬ 
ald, at that instant, roared out “boh! 9 * and the ball 
passed over his head into the ceiling. It was now 
Fitzgerald’s turn, but he declined firing, on condition 
lhat O’Brien should ask his pardon ; which, after some 
hesitation, he agreed to do before the young lady in 
the shop, who had all this time been quivering with 
terror at the probable result of a duel so singularly 
Conducted. 

Captain Fitzgerald soon afterwards married a Miss 
Conolly, sister to the member for Londonderry, and 
cousin-german to the Duke of Leinster, and received 
with her a fortune of ten thousand pounds ; his father 
at the same time executing a deed of settlement, by 
which he was to pay him a thousand pounds a-year ; 
but as this annuity was paid very irregularly, or rather 
not at all, it became a bone of contention between fa¬ 
ther and son, and was ultimately the cause of Fitzger¬ 
ald’s ignominious death. 


FIGHTING- FITZGERALD. 


141 


Soon after nis marriage, he left his native country, 
and resided in various parts of France and England, 
for about ten years, during which time he led a life of 
dissipation and gambling, and fell into innumerable 
scrapes,—a specimen of which we have already given, 
—and from which he generally escaped with reputa¬ 
tion to his valour , but to his disgrace as a member of 
society. 

He became at length absolutely notorious, from 
certain disgraceful circumstances which arose out of 
an adventure at Vauxhall, in the summer of 1773. 
He had gone thither with the Honourable Mr. (after¬ 
wards Lord) Lyttleton, a Captain Croftes, and seve¬ 
ral others, all of whom being inebriated with wine, 
conducted themselves in a very insolent and unbe** 
coming manner. 

In the course of their perambulations round the 
gardens, they met a party of ladies, under the protec¬ 
tion of the well-known Rev. Henry Bate, (after¬ 
wards Sir H. B. Dudley,) the proprietor and editor 
of the Morning Post newspaper. Our heroes com¬ 
menced the attack, by leering, laughing aloud, and 
making impertinent remarks at the ladies ; one of 
whom, Mrs. Hartley the actress, being put complete¬ 
ly out of countenance by the impudent stare of Fitz¬ 
gerald, burst into tears. This was too much, and it 
very naturally called down upon him and his compa¬ 
nions the severe reprehensions of Mr. Bate, who de¬ 
signated their conduct as most unmanly and ungentle¬ 
manlike. A reply followed of course; and this was 
succeeded by a most unhandsome retort from Captain 
Croftes, who made a very indecent and unjust re- 


142 THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 

mark on the reverend gentleman, in allusion to Mrs;- 
Hartley. 

Mr. Bate, who was highly irritated, now struck 
Croftes a violent blow, which was df course return¬ 
ed ; but the Parson was more than a match for the 
Captain at fisty-cuffs, and would, no doubt, have giv¬ 
en his antagonist a sound thrashing, had not the 
screams of the ladies, and the blustering and noise of 
the gentlemen , called around the combatants a host 
of persons eager to witness the fray. Fitzgerald, see¬ 
ing that his friend had the worst of it, at length in¬ 
terposed ; suggesting that mutual satisfaction might 
be given and received in another place, and in a more 
agreeable manner to both parties, than before so many 
spectators. This advice was adopted, and cards were 
exchanged. 

The belligerent parties met at the Cocoa-Tree, next 
morning, according to appointment, for the determi¬ 
nation of their quarrel ; which very soon, by the in¬ 
terposition of friends, was happily adjusted ;—apolo¬ 
gies being made on both sides. 

At the very instant, however, that Bate and Croftes 
were reconciled, and were shaking hands, Fitzgerald 
strode into the room, and, in a very rude and insolent 
manner, demanded that the former should give imme¬ 
diate satisfaction to a Captain Miles , his friend, who, 
he said, had been grossly insulted by the clergyman 
the evening before. 

Miles was now introduced, and a violent altercation 
arose between Bate and Fitzgerald ; the former de¬ 
claring that he did not recollect ever seeing Captain 
Miles’s face before, and that therefore he could not 
have in any way offended him ; whilst the latter de- 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


143 


dared, upon his honour , that he himself had witness¬ 
ed the alleged affront to Captain Miles , and therefore, 
as his friend, insisted on the satisfaction of one gen¬ 
tleman to another. Miles backed this declaration 
upon his honour, and (as preconcerted between him 
and Fitzgerald) swore a tremendous oath, that if Mr. 
Bate did not immediately strip and box with him, he 
(Miles) would post him for a coward, and cane him 
handsomely wherever he met with him. 

The parson was thunderstruck ; and, though one 
of the fancy of his day, he for a time urged the vul¬ 
garity of the proposed exhibition; saying that, “ Al¬ 
though he was by no means afraid of the issue, he 
did not choose to fight in any way unbecoming a gen¬ 
tleman adding, “that that, for one of his cloth , 
was bad enough in the opinion of the public ; but 
having no desire to flinch, he was ready to meet Cap¬ 
tain Miles, either with sword or pistol, whenever 
and wherever he chose to appoint.’ 7 

This proposition, however reasonable, was by no 
means satisfactory, either to Captain Miles or to the 
honourable Mr. Fitzgerald,—for they had a particu¬ 
lar object in view, and they both insisted on their 
first demand ;—the former declaring that he was in¬ 
exorable on the point of pugilism, and repeating his 
former threat of personal chastisement. 

The parson was puzzled how to act, until Miles at 
length said something about cowardice, which he 
could not stomach ; therefore, to prevent Fitzgerald, 
Lyttleton, &c., from enjoying a triumph at his ex¬ 
pense, Mr. Bate consented to encounter the redoubt¬ 
ed Captain immediately, and on his own terms. A 
ring was accordingly formed, the combatants strip- 


144 


THE CLXTBS OF LONDON. 


ped, and Fitzgerald exulted in the prospect of seeing 
Bate soundly thrashed. But he reckoned without his 
host: for, in less than fifteen minutes, the parson 
beat the Captain almost to a jelly. 

The latter having at length cried peccavi to Mr. 
Bate’s repeated question, of 44 Have you had suffici¬ 
ent satisfaction ?” the poor devil was taken away half 
dead, his eyes being so closed that he could not see 
his way home. 

Here the matter rested for the present; but, in a 
few days afterwards, it was discovered that Captain 
Miles was no less a personage than Fitzgerald’s own 
footman, whom (being an athletic fellow and an ex¬ 
pert pugilist) his master had dressed up in military 
style, and dubbed an officer and gentleman, for the 
purpose of punishing and disgracing the parson ! 

Mr. Bate now very properly exposed the whole 
affair to the public, in the Morning Post: designating 
the conduct of the parties privy to the affair as most 
infamous. This produced recriminatory letters in all 
the other newspapers ; but the public were unani¬ 
mously of opinion that our heroes had entirely de¬ 
graded themselves from the rank of gentlemen. 
Croftes was deprived of his commission as an officer; 
Mr. Lyttleton, after being shunned by his compani¬ 
ons for some time, at length made the amende honor¬ 
able, and was again received into society; but Fitz¬ 
gerald, though he published a sort of bastard apology, 
was universally condemned, not only by the gentle¬ 
men of the army, but by all ranks, and in all com¬ 
panies. 

One gentleman, Captain Scawen, of the Guards, 
reprobated his conduct in such severe terms, that, to 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


145 


prevent himself being shunned by the whole of his 
friends and associates, Fitzgerald thought it necessary 
to call him out , or bully him into an apology. Meet¬ 
ing him, therefore, at the Cocoa-Tree, he demanded, 
in a swaggering and ferocious manner, “Whether 
Captain Scawen had ever dared to take liberties with 
his name and character ?” 

“Liberties, Sir,” answered the Captain: “no li¬ 
berties can be taken with that which is already infa¬ 
mous. I avow having reprobated your conduct, which 
is degrading to a gentleman ; and I shall continue to 
do so until you make due amends to Mr. Bate for the 
insult you have so unworthily cast upon him.” 

Fitzgerald was enraged beyond measure, and chal¬ 
lenged Scawen, on the spot, to fight with swords: the 
latter, however, being aware of Fitzgerald’s reputed 
superiority over himself and others in the use of that 
weapon, declined this mode of settling the dispute ; 
but offered to fight him with pistol's wherever he 
pleased. To this, Fitzgerald’s brave spirit would not 
accede ; though, according to the etiquette of all mo¬ 
dern duellos , the challenged person invariably has the 
choice of weapons. 

In refusing his consent, however, to so fair and so 
proper an alternative, our hero chose to add some 
very insulting expressions, which induced Captain 
Scawen to cane him soundly round the coffee-room. 
The consequence was eternal disgrace, or immediate 
consent to meet his opponent on his own ground. He 
chose the latter; and the parties set out in a few days 
for Flanders, with their surgeons and seconds. 

They first met at Lisle, according to Fitzgerald’s 
appointment, and all matters relating to the duel be- 

vol. i. n 


146 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


ing adjusted, they arrived on the ground, in the Aus¬ 
trian territory, on the first day of September. In de¬ 
scribing this extraordinary rencontre , we cannot do 
better than make use of the words of Captain Fagan, 
Fitzgerald’s second, as they appeared in one of the 
prints of the period :— 

“When the gentlemen came to the ground, which 
was in the Queen’s country, between Pont-au-Tressin 
and Tournay, Mr. Fitzgerald loaded his pistols ; and 
Captain Nugent of the Guards, Mr. Scawen’s second, 
assisted the latter to load his. It was agreed that the 
distance should be ten steps , which was measured by 
the seconds ; and the choice of places was deter¬ 
mined by throwing up a piece of money, by which it 
fell upon Mr. Scawen. 

“The principals then took their ground, and the 
seconds retired. Captain Scawen asked Mr. Fitzger¬ 
ald if he would fire first; which proposition he ac¬ 
cepted, and immediately discharged his pistol : the 
ball passed under Mr. Scawen’s chin. Mr. Scawen 
then presented and levelled his pistol ; but Mr. Fitz¬ 
gerald , in bringing his second pistol to a level , ac¬ 
cidentally discharged it before Mr. Scawen had 
fired off his :—upon which Mr. Scawen said, ‘Mr. 
Fitzgerald, you have fired your second pistol /’ To 
which, Mr. Fitzgerald replied, 4 It is true, Sir; but 
I assure you it was merely accidental, and I ask your 
pardon for it.’ And then, advancing a pace or two 
towards Mr. Scawen, Mr. Fitzgerald added, 4 You 
have both your pistols, Sir; I desire you will fire 
them, and we will both load again.’* 

* This part of Fagan’s account was positively contradicted bv 
Captains Nugent and Pigott, who published another account, of 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


147 


£< Mr. Scawen then said, 4 Sir, it makes no difference ; 
I am glad it happened so and immediately came up 
to Mr. Fitzgerald, and addressing himself to him, told 
him, 4 if he had said any thing disrespectful (!) against 
him, it must have been when he was disordered with 
liquor ; and he teas extremely sorry for it.’ Then, 
taking a cane out of one of the surgeons’ hands, he de¬ 
livered it to Mr. Fitzgerald, who very lightly laid it 
on Mr. Scawen’s shoulders : and afterwards told Mr. 
Scawen, 4 that he was very sorry for what he had said 
of him, as he now behaved like a gentleman !’ 

44 The gentlemen then shook hands, went and spent 
the evening together, and parted perfectly reconcil¬ 
ed!” 

Thus ended this curious affair, which made a great 
noise at the time. How Scawen could have been re¬ 
conciled, or spend the evening with, but, above all 
things, make an apology to , a man who had behaved 
so ill, and who had, moreover, taken such a mur - 

which the following is an extract:—“Mr. Scawen, in going to his 
ground, asked Mr. Fitzgerald if he chose to fire first ? who replied, 

' * it was a matter of indifference to him but altering his opinion , 
said, ‘he would take the first shot /—to which Mr. Scav/en rea¬ 
dily assented. Mr. Fitzgerald then presented his pistol, and fired: 
the shot seemed to pass very near Mr. Scawen. After Mr. Fitzger¬ 
ald had fired his first pistol, he took hold of the other, and stood 
with it in the attitude of presenting, to receive Mr. Scawen’s fire. 
Mr. Scawen then presented his pistol; but before he could pull the 
trigger , was surprised at the report of Mr. Fitzgerald’s second pistol. 
On this, Mr. Scawen immediately recovered his ; telling Mr. Fitz¬ 
gerald, at the same time, ‘ that as both his pistols were discharged, 
he could not think of firing at him,’ and immediately discharged his 
in the air . Mr. Fitzgerald replied, «I assure you, I did not mean 
it; my pistol went off by accident: but I ’ll load again !! !’ The 
seconds and surgeons here interposed,” &c. &c. 


148 


THE CLUES OF LONDON. 


dering advantage of him on the field of battle, is un¬ 
accountable : it certainly shows to what a daring pitch 
Fitzgerald could go ; and proves the dread (?-) in 
which his name was universally held. But this sort of 
advantage was not new to our hero : on a previous oc¬ 
casion of the same sort, (the particulars of which the 
writer does not well recollect) Fitzgerald shot his an¬ 
tagonist through the head , without notice or warn¬ 
ing, the instant the unfortunate man took his ground! 

By this time, Fitzgerald’s money and character be¬ 
ing nearly gone, death withdrew his wife from a more 
protracted view of the extravagancies and mad quar¬ 
rels which arose out of his constant attendance at the 
gaming table ; she left him a daughter, the only fruit 
of their union. His finances were now in that state 
of fluctuation and uncertainty which his skill in gamb¬ 
ling, or the chance of the die, invariably gives rise to 
in the condition of all professed votaries of the black 
art; for his remittances from Ireland were very uncer¬ 
tain, and very small. He was literally a black-leg, and 
many quarrels grew out of his unblushing attempts at 
pillaging the unwary. When a pigeon was entrap¬ 
ped, his associates pounced upon him ; and if he resist¬ 
ed plucking to the last feather, Fitzgerald was at hand, 
as the champion of the gang, to frighten their victim 
into submission. This he did, generally, by his inso¬ 
lent air and overbearing manner, but more frequently 
by his very name. 

Being engaged in an affair of this sort with a gen¬ 
tleman named Walker, a young cornet of the light 
dragoons, several angry pamphlets passed between 
them, among which was one entitled 44 An Appeal to 
the Jockey Club,” by Fitzgerald, in which he made 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


149 


the following boast of his dexterity in the art of duel¬ 
ling :— C( I know,” said he, ‘‘ from trials successively 
repeated, twenty times, one after another, that I can, 
at the distance of six paces, hit any part of the human 
body, to a line , which Mr. Walker ma ypossibly know 
is only the twelfth part of an inch.” In another part 
of this pamphlet were the following words : u As to 
good qualities, some I have, perhaps, though few in 
number ; this, however, I can say for myself,— no 
man can impeach my courage in the field , my ho¬ 
nour on the turf \ or my credit on the Royal Ex¬ 
change! //” 

In his paper warfare, Fitzgerald generally called in 
the assistance of a brother gamester, named Timothy 
Brecknock. This man had been well educated, but a 
faux pas in his youth had compelled him to go into 
voluntary exile. Returning from the Continent on his 
father’s death, he commenced the life of a man of ton , 
and figured as such for several years, both in Bath and 
London. But his fortune being dilapidated by gamb¬ 
ling, approaching poverty urged him to levy with 
interest upon other victims, those pecuniary mulcts 
which he himself had contributed during his own no¬ 
viciate. 

Brecknock, moreover, commenced the study of the 
law, in which he made some progress, and became a 
member of Lincoln’s Inn. There are several remarka¬ 
ble stories told of his ingenuity at quibble and fraud, 
in the few cases which were committed to his care. 
Something of this kind coming to light, he was again 
compelled to quit the kingdom. On his return, after 
an absence of several years, his tricks were so well 
remembered, that he had little opportunity of practice 

N 2 


150 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


in the legal profession. He accordingly commenced 
author in which capacity, as well as at the gaming¬ 
table, he was useful to Fitzgerald, until the machina¬ 
tions of the one, joined to the ferocity of the other, 
caused the ultimate ruin and untimely end of both. 

Notwithstanding Brecknock’s multitudinous avoca¬ 
tions, he was rather out at elbows about the year 1775 ; 
and Fitzgerald being in a plight very little better, it 

* Tim. Brecknock was by no means contemptible as a writer. He 
published several poems and political tracts; and, for several years, 
wrote in one of the London Journals, under the name of “ Attor¬ 
ney-General to the Gazetteer In 1764, he published a pamphlet 
entitled ‘ Droit de Hoi,’ which being denounced in the House of 
Lords, as favouring arbitrary principles, was ordered to be burnt 
by the common hangman ! Tim. kept up the notoriety which this 
affair conferred on him, by turning common informer; which repu¬ 
table calling he commenced some time in 1762, by laying informa¬ 
tion against the Judges of the land for wearing cambric! He was 
particularly well acquainted with almost all the ancient laws; and 
made much profit by dragging from their musty holes many an 
obsolete act, which remained unrepealed because overlooked, and 
because the necessity for enforcing them had long since ceased. 

His boldness of manner and quick decision, joined to the above- 
mentioned kind of knowledge, served greatly to ingratiate him 
with his clients, and with others who had business with him ; for 
those whom his demonstrations did not convince, he took care 
to bully into acquiescence. He was retained, for the Portuguese 
Charge des Affaires, in some transaction with Lord Shelburne, 
(Secretary of State,) about the year 1766, and tried the effect of 
intimidation in the following manner:—Being unable to persuade 
or argue the Earl into the wished-for measure, he gravely leaned 
on his hand, and looked him steadfastly in the face, saying, “ 1 shall 
•never leave , nor lose sight of you y until I bring your head to the 
block!” The Secretary, of course, ordered him to be turned out 
of his office; but, considering that the man who could have the 
audacity to make such a speech, had the talent of being useful^ 
afterwards employed him in some secret services. 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


151 


was agreed on between them, as Timothy was a man 
cunning in the law, to go to Ireland and to bring old 
Mr. Fitzgerald to account for the irregularity of his 
remittances to his affectionate and dutiful son. They 
considered, likewise, that as the characters of both 
were worn rather threadbare, it might be no bad specu¬ 
lation to try a reviver on them upon a new stage. 

This pair of worthies accordingly set out, and on 
their arrival in Dublin commenced a Chancery suit 
against Fitzgerald’s father ; and whilst it was carrying 
on, they took care not to lose an atom of the reputa¬ 
tion which the} 7 had so industriously earned in Eng¬ 
land. At length, in 17S0, Fitzgerald obtained a de¬ 
cree for arrears of the annuity, and went to take pos¬ 
session of the whole of his father’s estate to satisfy the 
demand. In doing this, however, great violence was 
committed by himself and his partisans, who had ma¬ 
ny conflicts with the tenantry, which compelled the 
father in his turn to sue for legal redress. 

Fitzgerald, junr. was accordingly indicted for a riot, 
found guilty, and sentenced to imprisonment for three 
years. His active mind, however, .would not bear 
enthralment; for, although every precaution was ta¬ 
ken, he forcibly effected his escape from the gaol, and 
went home to Rockfield, where he erected a battery 
of several pieces of ordnance :—these were placed on 
a mount overlooking the road. This, with other cor¬ 
responding warlike preparations, alarmed the Govern¬ 
ment, who at length sent a regiment of horse, with a 
train of artillery, to dislodge the offenders. On their 
approach, Fitzgerald and his Guerillas took to flight, 
and concealed themselves in the mountains for some 
time. 


152 


THE CLUES OP LONDON. 


In the mean time, sentence of outlawry having been 
passed on him, and a reward of 300/. offered for his 
apprehension, Fitzgerald could not well brook the re¬ 
straint under which he lay in his concealment: accord¬ 
ingly, u with a chosen band,” and in the middle of 
the night, he marched to Turlough, where his father 
resided, (having been deprived of the seat of his an¬ 
cestors,) and forcibly took him prisoner. The old 
man being placed in a post-chaise, a strong guard was 
placed around him ; and in this manner was he led in 
triumph all through the country, until their arrival in 
Dublin, where he soon died of a broken heart. Fitz¬ 
gerald himself was soon afterwards captured, and safe¬ 
ly lodged in the prison of Dublin, where he remained 
for some time ; but he had art or interest enough, at 
length, to procure a pardon from Earl Temple, then 
Lord Lieutenant. 

He now resided for some time in and near Dublin, 
where his ferocious manners kept all respectable per¬ 
sons at a respectful distance from him. Even in walk¬ 
ing the streets, people were afraid to come in contact 
with him, fearful of giving offence to, or of incurring 
the resentful notice of, so untameable an animal, either 
by thought, word, or deed. Many, when they saw 
him approach them, used actually to cross to the op¬ 
posite pavement, in order to avoid him : but this too, 
whenever be observed it, was construed into offence ; 
for he would follow the renegadoes and demand satis- 
faction! which, of course, he generally received in 
the shape of apology, for no denial of intentional af¬ 
front was of the least avail. Unfortunately, the city 
of Dublin presented so many duelling exhibitions at 


FIGHTING- FITZGERALD. 


153 


this period, as to give countenance to Fitzgerald’s ire- 
lul disposition and quarrelsome habits. 

His country neighbours (that is, the gentlemen in 
the vicinity of Dublin, where he rented a house and 
grounds) avoided coming in contact with him, as much 
as Irish hospitality would permit. Many of them 
certainly invited him to their houses ; but being oblig¬ 
ed to be obsequious, and to be on the qui vive in re¬ 
moving impressions of fancied offence, his company 
was generally very irksome. One of them, however, 
a retired officer, named Boulton, would on no account 
invite him to his mansion, or associate with him in 
any way ; even Fitzgerald’s invitations to his own 
house were declined on the plea of indisposition, &c. 
Our hero was anxious to pick a quarrel; but he was 
puzzled how to begin : at length, his invention, always 
fertile in mischief, suggested the idea of going upon 
the Captain’s grounds, to shoot without leave. 

Accordingly, he set out for Brackenstown, attended 
by his servant ; entered the preserve, and commenced 
killing the game in grand style. The steward soon 
came up to them and commenced a remonstrative ora¬ 
tion ; but Fitzgerald immediately put him to flight, by 
presenting his gun at his head ; and the poor fellow es¬ 
caped only by a miracle, for the ball whizzed by his 
ear as he was in the act of darting through the hedge. 
He of course ran for his life, and Fitzgerald followed 
at a rapid pace, with the other gun, which his servant 
had just loaded, intending to have despatched him. 
The man, however, at length found shelter in the man¬ 
sion ; and Fitzgerald determined to wreak his ven¬ 
geance on the lord of the manor. Coming up the 
lawn, he commenced a volley of abuse on Captain 


154 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON, 


Boulton, calling on him.to come out and give satis¬ 
faction for the affront offered by his bailiff: but the 
Captain not choosing to obey so uncourteous a sum¬ 
mons, Fitzgerald fired his piece in at the parlour bow- 
window ! The owner of the mansion still not appear¬ 
ing, this ruffianly conduct was continued as fast as the 
servant could load and the master discharge the guns, 
and until the whole of the ammunition was expended ; 
by which time, there was not a whole pane of glass in 
the house ! 

From such audacious inroads on the peace and com¬ 
forts of civilized life, the neighbouring gentry were at 
length relieved, by a report which went abroad, that 
66 Fitzgerald had in a fit of passion killed his own gar¬ 
dener, and buried the body somewhere in the grounds. 99 
No real proof, certainly, ever came to light which 
could warrant this allegation in its f ullest extent ; but 
true it is that the gardener disappeared after a quarrel 
with his master, and was never afterwards heard of. 
The report was farther borne out by the departure soon 
afterwards of Fitzgerald to his hereditary domain, 
afraid, no doubt, of the strong arm of the law :—and 
glad enough were the Dublin gentry that he was gone! 

We have now to follow him to his strong-hold, and 
throughout the remaining short stage of his existence. 
Tim. Brecknock still stuck close to his fortunes, and 
was in fact the evil star which led him to his fate—. 
and Fitzgerald did not require much prompting to 
gratify his desire for revenge upon his enemies. A 
Mr. Macdonnel, an attorney, and sub-sheriff of the 
county, had, it seems, incurred his high displeasure 
by interesting himself in the disputes between him 
and his father ; in fact, old Mr. Fitzgerald had ern * 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


155 


ployed him as his solicitor in the several disputes with 
his son. Mr. Macdonnel was now marked out for 
vengeance ; and as he was passing Rockfield one night, 
between nine and ten o’clock, Fitzgerald, with five 
or six of his gang,.waylaid him, fired upon him, and 
wounded him severely. For this atrocious attempt 
at assassination he took his trial at the assizes, and, 
strange to say, was acquitted! 

Emboldened by so many escapes, his audacity knew 
no bounds ; for he conceived that the civil authorities 
were afraid to lay hold of him, or a jury to convict 
him. An advertisement having appeared, by which 
Mr. Macdonnel and a numerous body of gentlemen at 
Castlebar offered a large reward for the discovery of 
the assassins who had made the above attempt at mur¬ 
der, Fitzgerald was exceeding wroth that, after his 
acquittal , Macdonnel should presume to make more 
stir in the matter, and therefore resolved to make 
a finish of the work which he had begun. In the mean 
time, poor Macdonnel, whose two arms had been bro¬ 
ken by musket-balls on the former occasion, had ta¬ 
ken refuge at the house of a Mr. Martin ; for he was 
still afraid of his lawless persecutor, more particularly 
since his acquittal. A few days after the wounded 
man had got into his hiding-place, and as two of his 
friends, Messrs. Gallaghan and Hypson, had just call¬ 
ed to inquire after his health, the house was surround¬ 
ed by a large party of armed men, who, breaking in, 
bound Mr. Macdonnel and his two friends with cords, 
and carried them off to Rockfield ! 

After remaining in Fitzgerald’s house for a short 
time, during which they were treated with every kind 
of insult and ignominy,—their captor applying to 


156 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


them, and especially to Macdonnel, every vile epithet 
which he could think of,—the unfortunate victims 
were led out by a body of armed men into the park. 

Mr. Hypson, still bound, being placed against a 
tree, half-a-dozen of the villains fired a volley and 
laid him dead on the spot ! Macdonnel and Gallaghan 
were now ordered to walk a little farther, to the bridge 
of Kilnecarra, a distance of about sixty yards, when 
the murderers prepared to complete their bloody work. 
Poor Macdonnel pointed to his former wounds, and 
earnestly implored his executioners to spare his life ; 
but in vain ! He then held down his head, when up¬ 
wards of fifty slugs passed through his hat and lodg¬ 
ed in his head and body: he instantly fell dead ! Mr. 
Gallaghan also received several slugs ; but these not 
being immediately fatal, he was, for some unknown 
reason, carried back to Fitzgerald’s house. 

The murderous party had not returned above a few 

minutes, when Rockfield house was surrounded, in its 

turn, by the whole of the military, foot and horse, 

who were quartered at Castlebar ; and these were*ac- 

companied by the Volunteers of the district, and by 

immense crowds of people of all ranks. An entrance, 

after some parley, having been forcibly effected, the 

soldiers entered the house and delivered Mr. Gallao-- 

© 

ban at the very instant that the desperadoes were 
going to give him the coup de grace ; for, as they 
expected no mercy, they were determined to give 
none. Several of them were now seized, among whom 
was Fitzgerald himself, who, after a long and strict 
search, was discovered locked up in a large chest and 
covered over with a couple of blankets ! This redoubt¬ 
ed hero, with as many of his accomplices as were 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


157 


caught that night, were immediately conducted to the 
gaol of Castlebar. 

The succeeding events of this night partook of the 
same romance and horror which had characterized 
Fitzgerald’s career all along : on this occasion, how¬ 
ever, he was a passive performer. 

No sooner were the desperadoes, to the number of 
twenty-six, safely lodged in prison, than popular re¬ 
sentment rose against them to a pitch of madness, un¬ 
paralleled in almost any other country. This was ex¬ 
cited by Fitzgerald’s long course of impunity ; for the 
higher and middle ranks, the former especially, saw 
that if he were once more at large, there would be no 
bounds to his ferocity.—Like the inhabitants of an In¬ 
dian village, who, when they discover that the sangui¬ 
nary tiger who had for some time infested the vicinity, 
to the great detriment of their cattle and population, 
has at length taken up his abode in a jungle,—they 
rushed upon him, pell-mell, to deprive him of the 
power of doing farther mischief. 

In the middle of the night they broke open the 
door of the gaol, knocked down the new sub-sheriff, 
the gaoler, and the sentinels ; and whilst the main 
body of the assailants remained below, six gentlemen 
entered Fitzgerald’s apartment, and fired upon him as 
they would on a mad dog. Of five shots, one took 
effect in his thigh. They then attacked him with 
swords, and, having disabled his right arm, got him 
down upon the floor, where one of them battered his 
head, in so shocking a manner, with a brass candle¬ 
stick, as to leave him for dead. At this critical mo¬ 
ment, a fresh body of troops arrived, and prevented 
the assailants from taking the farther execution of the 


VOL. i. 


o 


158 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


law into their own hand (by putting the rest of the 
prisoners to death) ; but they only quitted the princi¬ 
pal victim of their rage, when they had assured them¬ 
selves they had completely effected their bloody pur¬ 
pose with regard to him. 

To their great surprise, however, Fitzgerald recov¬ 
ered ; and a Special Commission being issued for the 
trial of the offenders, he and others swore positively 
to their identity. But, notwithstanding the clearness 
of proof, and the Attorney-General’s laudable endea¬ 
vour to bring to punishment those turbulent spirits 
who had dared to assault a prisoner whilst under the 
protection of the laws, the jury returned a verdict of 
not guilty. They had set their minds against the 
administration of equal justice in this case ; and the at¬ 
tempt to prove an alibi enabled them to save their 
friends—the universal wish being, to get rid of Fitz¬ 
gerald. 

Next day, Fitzgerald himself was put to the bar for 
procuring Timothy Brecknock and others to murder 
Messrs. Macdonnel and Hypson. He of course plead¬ 
ed not guilty ; but the evidence of two of his accom¬ 
plices, on the part of the Crown, was decisive against 
him. He made a most able defence, in a speech of, 
nearly three hours, in which he displayed a strength 
of imagination which astonished the whole court ; and 
the degree of composure which he assumed through¬ 
out the whole trial, was no less surprising to every 
one who beheld him. When the Verdict of guilty. 
however, was pronounced, the sudden gloom which 
overspread his countenance evidently showed that he 
had calculated on an acquittal. 

The next day was occupied in the trial of his ae~ * 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


159 


complices, five of whom were found guilty. One of 
Fitzgerald’s counsel now gave notice of a motion in 
arrest of judgment; and the court allowed him two 
days to consider of it, though no defect was found in 
the indictment; but when that time arrived, and when 
Timothy Brecknock had been found guilty of aiding 
and abetting the murderers, the motion was abandon-, 
ed by the advice of the Chief Baron, who entreated 
that it might not be made without solid and sufficient 
grounds, as Fitzgerald must necessarily be present; 
and his feelings, which had hitherto been calm and 
composed, might possibly be deranged. The chief 
culprit was now brought into court; and after a most 
affecting exhortation, the judge passed sentence of death 
on him and Brecknock ; at the same time giving or¬ 
ders that execution should take place in a few hours ! 
—This was dreadful : and Fitzgerald deprecated such 
unusual despatch in the operations of the law, in the 
following words:— 

“My Lords, I humbly hope for the humane indul¬ 
gence of this court to my present most unhappy situ¬ 
ation. I do not mean, my Lords, to take up your 
time; but I trust that what I shall say will be attended 
with effect. 

“ The very short period of time that has elapsed 
since my conviction, has been taken up in adjusting 
my temporal affairs ; and in truth, my Lords, even 
these are not perfectly settled : but I now wish to make 
some preparation, some settlement of peace with Heav¬ 
en, before I pass into the presence of an all-seeing and 
justly offended God, which I am about to do. 

“ My Lords, you may be led to imagine that I plead 
for this indulgence of time, in hopeful expectation of 


1G0 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


obtaining His Majesty’s pardon; but, my Lords, Ida 
most solemnly declare that I have no such inducement; 
for if His Majesty were to offer me his pardon—nay,, 
his crown along with it, I would not accept of either 
the one or the other. Under the weight of such a ver¬ 
dict against me, it is impossible I could ever look one 
of the community in the face, or again hold up my 
head in society. 

“ Let it not be understood, my Lords, that, by this 
declaration, I insinuate or infer the smallest degree of 
censure on the verdict of the jury. No, my Lords ; 

I know them all to be gentlemen of the most fair and 
irreproachable characters : men not to be biassed, and 
who could not avoid bringing me in guilty, even if I 
were their own brother, from the body of evidence 
that has appeared against me ; which evidence, if I had 
been before acquainted with it, I should have endear 
voured to have had witnesses to repel. But that, my 
Lords, is not now the matter for consideration :—the 
only thing I plead for, is tune . 

“ It has been said, my Lords, that I want that time 
to commit an act of suicide; but I have too many of¬ 
fences already on my back, and too dreadful crimes to ' 
account for, to desire such a miserable passport into 
eternity.”— 

In answer to this address, the judge, with tears in 
his eyes, recapitulated the rigour of the law, and 
urged, that, the unfortunate gentleman whom he had 
murdered had been sent into eternity without one mi¬ 
nute’s warning. He concluded by saying, that after 
the order for execution had been passed, it was not in 
the power of the court to interfere.—His request must 
therefore rest with the humanity of the sheriff\ 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


161 


Of the benefits of this humanity , however, it was 
very unlikely that the culprit should taste ; for the 
high sheriff and many other gentlemen saw no securi¬ 
ty for their own lives whilst Fitzgerald continued to 
draw breath. Accordingly, about an hour after the 
court had adjourned, Brecknock and another being 
drawn, pinioned, in a cart, to the hill of Castlebar, 
Fitzgerald was brought out of the gaol. He had not 
changed his dress, and he walked to the place of exe¬ 
cution, attended by the clergymen, and surrounded 
by strong detachments of horse and foot. He had pre¬ 
viously entreated the sheriff not to allow him to be 
manacled, or bound with cords; and this was com¬ 
plied with, though unwillingly. 

The scaffolding erected before the new gaol, which 
was then building, was fixed upon as a gallows for 
Fitzgerald and his companions ; for, the authorities 
were afraid of taking time in the construction of any 
other. The rope was accordingly fastened round a flat 
board, and the ladder placed under it. As soon as 
Fitzgerald arrived, he was surrounded by no less than 
four clergymen, each of a different persuasion ; and 
all, of course, anxious for the conversion of so great a 
sinner. Though terribly hurried in his devotions,— 
for until sentence was passed he never thought of such 
a thing,—the poor fellow contrived, after his arrival, 
to get through Dr. Dodd’s Thoughts in Prison, his Last 
Prayer, &c., and answered some questions on spiritual 
subjects as calmly as circumstances would permit;* 

* Perhaps it was intended, that the priests, by their number, 
should in some degree compensate to the criminal, by means of 
their assiduities for the salvation of his soul, for the rather indecent 
haste of the civil authorities in the disposal of his body. 

o 2 


162 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


but he became terribly agitated when the execution¬ 
er made preparations for pushing him off the ladder. 
When he perceived this, he earnestly entreated the 
sheriff to grant him but Jive minutes longer to live ; 
which being granted, he pulled the cap over his face, 
and resigned himself to silent prayer. Being at length 
told that the time was elapsing fast, he replied, u Sure, 
Sir, it is not so long I—Stop ! stop ! X have just collect¬ 
ed myself—for God’s sake, let me die in peace !—pray 
grant me just one min—.” Before he had finished 
this last petition, the executioner threw him off the 
ladder!— 

As if the last scene of this singular man’s life was 
destined to be as singular as any which had preceded 
it, an accident now occurred which, might have har¬ 
rowed up the feelings of his most inveterate enemies. 
By the sudden jerk on the sharp edges of the flat board, 
at the instant of swinging off, the rope broke, and Fitz¬ 
gerald fell on his shoulder, upon the ground, from a 
great height. The multitude uttered a cry of horror 
but the unfortunate criminal soon recovered himself, 
and, standing erect, exclaimed, “ By G—d! Mr. She¬ 
riff, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!—this rope » 
is not strong enough to hang a dog, far less a Chris¬ 
tian ; and it is impossible but you must have known 
that. I beg, Sir, that you will get a better one, and 
that without delay. ” 

His ghostly advisers surrounded him whilst a new 
rope was getting ready \ and the holy eagerness of 
each to inculcate his own particular doctrines, perhaps 
in some degree lessened the pangs which he must 
have suffered during the terrible suspense caused by 
so untoward an accident. When the new rope was 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


163 


placed around his neck, he was requested to ascend 
the ladder higher than before ; but this he refused to 
do, alleging, “ that by the next tumble he might break 
his neck.” Being again thrown off, the second rope 
nearly met with the fate of the first; for it stretched 
so far as to let his feet touch the ground,—which they 
actually did for some time, until the executioner drew 
him up with great difficulty about a foot and a half, 
when he was strangled and put out of his misery. 

Having hung during the time prescribed by law, 
his body was cut down and scars made in, it with a 
knife, according to the form of the death-warrant. It 
was immediately afterwards carried to the ruins of 
Turlough House, and was waked in one of the stables. 
Next day, he was buried in the church-yard adjoining^ 
in his clothes, and without a coffin, on what is generally 
termed the wrong or unhallowed side of the church. 

His accomplices met death with considerable spirit 
and decency. Brecknock, however, rather puzzled 
the parsons, by refusing to join in any devotional ex¬ 
ercise, except the Lord’s Prayer, which he repeated 
in Greek ! This poor man was nearly seventy years 
of age when he died ^ was quite bald, with grey locks ; 
and insisted upon being hanged in a brown wig !— 

Thus lived and thus perished Fighting Fitzgerald— 
a man, the like of whom, take him for all in all, it is 
hoped the world will never look upon again. His 
quarrelsome disposition and habits were doubtless in¬ 
duced by the duelling temperament of the age in which 
he lived, by the wound before alluded to, and by the 
unfortunate differences with his family. The breach 
between himself and his father, was certainly widened 
by the meddling interference of Macdonnel and others, 


164 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


in matters beyond the proper sphere of their profes¬ 
sional advice ; and it is hardly to be wondered at that 
a man of his irritable and haughty temper should seek 
revenge. 

No attempt is here made to palliate his conduct:— 
on the contrary, he ought to have been put out of the 
pale of society, on the commission of his first crime ; 
—and indeed, he deserved death long before he suffer¬ 
ed it.—In summing up the catalogue of his vices, 
however, we ought not to shut our eyes upon his vir¬ 
tues :—of the latter, he certainly possessed that one 
for which his countrymen have always been so famous, 

-—generosity. He also deserves some credit for strong 
fraternal affection ; a negative virtue perhaps, but one 
that ought to have some weight in the examination of 
the character of a man reputed to have lived at enmity 
with all the world.* He loved, and was beloved by, 

* The negatively good qualities here attributed to the ruffian 
Fitzgerald, strongly remind the Editor of a very useful individual 
who resided some years ago in the vicinity of Cork. This man was 
the perfect counterpart of Mr. Harmony, in Inchbald’s comedy of 
“ Everyone has his Fault.” Whenever he heard any person ill- 
spoken of, he would invariably commence an enumeration of his 
good qualities; and when any one was blamed for a fault or error, * 
he would say, “Oh ! well now, we don’t know how he may have 
been urged by circumstances. God knows, we ought not to blame 
him severely; for, perhaps, if we were similarly situated, we should 
have done just the same that he has done.” In short, he was 
the very antidote to scandal, and was therefore nicknamed “ Va¬ 
luable.” 

One day, the character of a notoriously bad man was on the 
tapis; and the person who chiefly reprobated his conduct, wound 
up the catalogue of his faults by saying, “But I dare say now, 
after all, that our friend Valuable here, will find an excuse for the 
scoundrel. Come now, Valuable, let us hear if any thing can be 


FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 


165 


his brother Lionel, whose kindness of heart and uni¬ 
formly good conduct were quite the opposite of his 
own. Lionel never forsook him : in his most depress¬ 
ed moments he afforded him the countenance of his 
friendship, and he always gave him good counsel,— 
warning him from the wayward course which he was 
pursuing. Would that he had taken it ! his offences 
would not now have to be recorded, nor the memory 
of his deeds consigned to eternal infamy. 

Peace to his Manes ! 

said in his favour. Ought not the villain to he drawn, hanged, and 
quartered ?” 

“ By J-s, then,” replied Valuable, “ye’re too hard upon the 

poor devil! Who knows— ?” 

“Come, come ! that won’t do,” said one of the company.—. 

If you wish to defend the rascal, mention one good quality that 
he has.” 

“ Oh ! by the powers ! then, my dear Mr. Barnard,” responded 
Valuable, “sure it isn’t yerself would go to deny that the poor 
fellow whittles well, any how 



166 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON* 


XVI. 

Jft Jfci f' \ 

MR. SHERIDAN’S READY WIT. 

Mr. Moore is mistaken, in stating that Sheridan 
was in the habit of manufacturing puns and other 
witty sayings, before he went into company ; and that 
he generally remained silent until a proper opportuni¬ 
ty offered for letting off a good thing. That he and 
other celebrated wits may have occasionally done so, 
is not at all improbable ; but that such was Sheridan’s 
practice, no one who knew him intimately can for a 
moment allow. Had the learned biographer in ques¬ 
tion, given the least consideration to his practical 
jokes upon those tradesmen and others, who were in 
the habit of dunning him, he would perceive that Mr. 
Sheridan’s invention was never at a stand; for, on 
such occasions, instead of paying, he generally contriv¬ 
ed to obtain longer time, and to run more deeply into 
thejr debt:—those who came to shear , went home 
shorn. But there are a thousand proofs on record., 
that, like the light produced by the fire-boxes now in 
vogue, Sheridan’s wit was instantaneous and vivid, 
A few of these brilliant flashes, as they occur to the 
writer’s mind, shall here be displayed ; the reader 
bearing in mind that such only shall be set down as 
are not mentioned by other authors—or which, having 
appeared, have not been attributed to him by them. 


mr. sheridan 7 s ready wit. 167 

Mr. Whitbread^ one evening at Brookes’s, talked 
loudly and largely against the ministers, for laying 
what was called the war-tax upon malt: everyone 
present, of course, concurred with him in opinion; 
but Sheridan could not resist the gratification of a hit 
against the brewer himself. He took out his pencil 
and wrote upon the back of a letter the following 
lines, which he handed to Mr. Whitbread across the 
table:— 

u They’ve raised the price of table drink; 

What is the reason, do you think ? 

The tax on malt’s the cause, I hear— 

But what has malt to do with beer ?” 


One day, meeting two Royal Dukes walking up 
St. James’s-street, the youngest thus flippantly ad¬ 
dressed him:—“I say, Sherry, we have just been 
discussing whether you are a greater fool or rogue; 
what is your own opinion, my boy?” Mr. Sheridan 
having bowed, and smiling at the compliment, took 
each of them by the arm, and instantly replied, “Why 
’faith, I believe I am between both .” 


Being on a parliamentary committee, he one day 
entered the room as all the members were seated, and 
ready to commence business. Perceiving no empty 
seat, he bowed ; and looking round the table, with a 
droll expression of countenance, said, “Will any gen¬ 
tleman move , that I may take the chair?” 


Looking over a number of the Quarterly Review, 
one day at Brookes’s, soon after its first appearance, he 





168 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


said, in reply to a gentleman who observed that the 
editor, Mr. Gifford, had boasted of the power of con¬ 
ferring and distributing literary reputation ; “ Very 
likely; and in the present instance I think he has 
done it so profusely as to have left none for him¬ 
self” 

Soon after the Irish members were admitted into 
the British House of Commons, at the Union, in 1801, 
one of them, in the midst of his maiden harangue, 
and in the national warmth of his heart, thus address¬ 
ed the chair:—“And now, my dear Mr. Speaker,’* 
&c., which created a loud laugh from all parts of the 
house. As soon as their mirth had subsided, Mr. She¬ 
ridan gave it another fillip, by observing, “That 
the honourable member was perfectly in order ; for, 
thanks to the ministers, now-a-days, every thing is 
dear.” 


The Hon. Mr. S-having finished a tragedy,' 

sent it to Sheridan with a note, requesting an early 
opinion, and offering it for performance at Drury- 
lane. The manager looked over the manuscript, but 
seeing nothing fit for representation, laid it on the ta¬ 
ble before the noble author* who called two days af¬ 
ter, without saying a word. “Well, now, my dear 
Sheridan,” said the dramatist, “what do you think 
of it? my friend Cumberland has promised me a pro¬ 
logue, and I dare say* for the interest of the theatre, 
you will have no objection to supply me with the epi¬ 
logue ?”—“ Trust me, my dear Sir, replied Sheridan, 
drily, and shaking his head, “it will never come to 
that* depend on’t.” 






mr. sheridan’s ready wit. 169 

A friend having pointed out to Mr. Sheridan that 
Lord Kenyon had fallen asleep at the first representa¬ 
tion of Pizarro, and that, too, in the midst of Rolla’s 
fine speech to the Peruvian soldiers, the dramatist felt 
rather mortified; but instantly recovering his usual 
good-humour, he said, “Ah, poor man! let him 
sleep, he thinks he is on the bench.” 


A rich, but exceedingly penurious, Member of the 
Lower House, having one day descanted for half an 
hour at the Cocoa-Tree, on the excellent quality and 
cheapness of a waistcoat , which, after much ’bating, 
he had just bought at a tailor’s shop in the Strand, and 
which he was exhibiting in triumph to the gentlemen 
present; concluded by praising the high perfection of 
the Manchester manufactures, and saying, “Can any 
thing be more reasonable ? Can any one conceive 
how they could let me have it so cheap ?” 

“Very easily,” replied Sheridan, raising his head 
from a newspaper, and heartily tired of being bored 
by such a subject; “they took you for one of the 
trade , and sold it you wholesale.” 


Whilst Sheridan, one sharp frosty day, was sitting 
in the Thatched House Tavern, writing a letter, the 
Prince of Wales came in and ordered a rump-steak; 
but, observing that the weather was excessively cold, 
desired the waiter, first to bring him a bumper of 
brandy and water. Having emptied the glass in a 
twinkling, he called for a second and a third ; which, 
also, having swallowed, he said, puffing out his 
cheeks and shrugging his shoulders, “ Now, I am 
vol. r. r 




170 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


warm and comfortable; bring me my steak .” The 
order was instantly obeyed ; but before His Royal 
Highness had eaten the first mouthful, Sheridan pre¬ 
sented him with the following lines, which greatly 
increased his good-humour. 

The Prince came in, and said 3 twas cold, 

Then put to his head the rummer; 

Till swallow after swallow came, 

When he pronounced it summer . 


The Prince of Wales, one day, at Brookes’s, expati¬ 
ating on that beautiful but far-fetched idea of Dr. Dar¬ 
win’s, that the reason of the bosom of a beautiful wo¬ 
man being the object of such exquisite delight for 
man to look upon , arises from the first pleasurable 
sensations of warmth , sustenance , and repose, which 
he derives therefrom in his infancy; Sheridan replied, 
“ Truly hath it been said, that there is only one step 
from the sublime to the ridiculous. All children who 
are brought up by hand must derive their pleasurable 
sensations from a very different source; yet I believe, 
no one ever heard of any such, when arrived at man¬ 
hood, evincing any very rapturous or amatory emo¬ 
tions at the sight of a wooden spoon!” This very 
clever exposure of an ingenious absurdity, was receiv¬ 
ed by his Royal Highness, Mr. Fox, and every other 
gentleman present, with great eclat; it was a fine elu¬ 
cidation of the folly of taking for granted every opi¬ 
nion which may be broached under the sanction of & 
great name.* 

* The ingenious author of Lacon has alluded to this anecdote ; 
but, as he has not mentioned the commentator’s name, it is here 
ascribed to its proper source. 



mr. sheridan’s ready wit. 


171 


Mr. Sheridan one day meeting the celebrated Beau 
Brummel, at Charing Cross, and perceiving that he 
appeared desirous of avoiding him, thus accosted him : 
tc Ah, Brummel, my fine fellow, where have you 
been at this time of day?” 

The prince of dandies was at first rather nonplus¬ 
ed, but at length drawled out, “ Sherry, my dear 
boy, don’t men-tion that you saw me in this fil-thy 
part of the town : but per-haps I am rather se-vere , 
for his Grace of Nor-thum-ber-land re-sides some¬ 
where about this spot, if I don’t mis-take. The fact 
is, my dear boy, I have been in the d-a-mn’-d c-it-y; 
to the Bank:—I wish they would remove it to the 
West End, for re-al-ly it is quite a bore to go to such a 
place; more par-ti-cu-lar-ly as one cannot be seen in 
one’s own e-qui-page beyond Somer-set House, and 
the Hackney-coaches are not fit for a chimney-sweep¬ 
er to ride in. Yes, my dear Sherry, you may note 
the cir-cum-stance down in your me-mor-and-um-book 
as a very re-mark-able one, that on the twen-ti-eth 
day of March, in the year of our Lord, eight-een 
hund-red and three, you des-ciied me, tra-vell-ing 
from the East end of the town like a common ci-ti-zen 
who has left his counting-house for the day, in order 
to dine with his up-start wife and daughters at their 
vul-gar re-si-dence in Bruns-wick Square.”* 

* Since Brummel’s speech, Russel, Tavistock, and Bedford 
Squares, have been placed in the Terra Incognita. In 1827 no 
Square East of Tottenham Court Road, is acknowledged by a man 
of fashion to exist, except upon hearsay, that in these unexplored 
places certain sugar-bakers, attorneys, brokers, barristers, and re¬ 
tired undertakers, and a centenarian judge or two, are domiciled. 
Lord Eldon, the last man of note or rank exiled in these parts, has 


172 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


When Brummel had concluded this affected rhap¬ 
sody, Sheridan said, “ Nay, my good fellow ! travel¬ 
ling from the East! after all, that is surely impossi¬ 
ble; you must be joking. ” 

“Why, my dear boy; why?” demanded Brum¬ 
mel. 

“Because the wise men came from the East,” re¬ 
plied Sheridan. 

“So then S-a-r,” exclaimed the fop, “you think 
me a fool, do you ?” 

“By no means,” answered Mr. Sheridan, turning 
away, “but I know you to be one; and so, good 
morning !” 

Brummel, like the equestrian statue just opposite 
to him, was struck dumb and motionless for a few se¬ 
conds ; at length, he vociferated, “I tell you what, 
my friend Sherry, I shall cat you for this im-per-ti- 
nence, depend on’t. I mean to-night, at the op-e-ra, 
to send the Prince to Co-ven-try for the next twelve 
months, and you shall ac-com-pany him.” 

Sheridan laughed heartily at the idea of being put 
under Brummel’s imperial ban , and to the great 
amusement of the fellow victim of his excommunica¬ 
tion, announced to him the woful tidings the same 
evening! 


The conversation at Brookes’s, one day, turning on 
Lord Henry Petty’s projected tax upon iron, one gen¬ 
tleman said, that as there was so much opposition to 

long since fled from Bedford-square to Hamilton-place, and if he 
could have “ made up his mind,” would have done it years be¬ 
fore.—So says Fashion ! 



MR. SHERIDAN *S READY WIT. 173 

it, it would be better to raise the proposed sum upon 
coals. 

“Hold! my dear fellow,” said Sheridan, “that 
would be out of the frying-pan into the Jire, with a 
vengeance!” 

That Sheridan was from his very infancy a person 
of great wit, the two following anecdotes will prove 
beyond doubt. Being at a boarding-school, where 
were also two brothers, the sons of a physician ; the 
conversation in the play-ground, as is often the case 
with boys, turned on the rank, riches, and profes¬ 
sions of their parents. The brothers were one day 
bragging largely of their father; saying “That he 
was a gentleman, and that he professionally attended 
several of the nobility.” 

“ And so is my father a gentleman ; and as good 
as your father, any day,” replied little Sheridan. 

* “Ah ! but,” said the elder boy, “your father is an 
acto ? % , Dick,—a player on the public stage ; conse¬ 
quently, it is impossible that he can be a gentleman.” 

“You may think so,” replied Sheridan, “but I 
don’t ; I know this, however :—your father kills peo¬ 
ple ;—mine only amuses them.” 


A gentleman having a remarkably long visage, was 
one day riding by the school, at the gate of which he 
overheard young Sheridan say to another lad, “ That 
gentleman’s face is longer than his life.” Struck by 
the strangeness of this rude observation, the man turn¬ 
ed his horse’s head, and requested an explanation. 

“ Sir,” said the boy, “ I meant no offence in the 

p 2 




174 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


world ; but I have read in the Bible at school, that a 
man’s life is but a span , and I am sure your face is 
double that length.” 

The gentleman threw the lad sixpence and rode off, 
laughing heartily. 


Mr. Sheridan met with a few hard rubs himself, 
however ; one or two of which may not be unenter¬ 
taining to mention. 

He was endeavouring to compliment (vulgo, to 
gammon) a city tailor out of a new suit of clothes, and 
promising him half a dozen similar orders every year. 
“ You are an excellent cut, my friend,” said Sheridan, 
“and you beat our snips of the West End, hollow. 
Why don’t you push your thimble amongst us ?—L’ll 
recommend you every where.—Upon my honour, 
your work gives you infinite credit.”—“Yes,” repli¬ 
ed Twist, u I always take care that my work gives long 
credit , but the wearers ready money.” 


The following retort was exceedingly severe ; in¬ 
deed, so much so, that Mr. Sheridan never forgot nor 
forgave its author, Horne Tooke. It is best to relate 
the anecdote in the latter gentleman’s own words :— 
“Shortly after I had published my two pairs of por¬ 
traits, of two fathers and two sons—those of Earl Chat¬ 
ham and Mr. Pitt, of Lord Holland and Mr. Fox—I 
met Sheridan, who said, with a saucy, satirical air, 4 So, 
Sir ! you are the reverend gentleman, I am told, who 
sometimes amuses himself in drawing portraits.’— 
6 Yes, Sir,’ I replied, 6 1 am that gentleman; and if you 
will do me the favour of sitting to me for vour’s, I pro- 




mr. sheridan ? s ready wit. 175 

mise you I will take it so faithfully, that even you 
yourself shall shudder at it!’ ” 

Mr. Sheridan was frequently in the habit of telling 
comical stories and satirical anecdotes ; a few of which 
may be worth mentioning. 

Pugilism being the subject of conversation one even¬ 
ing, two gentlemen, one from Liverpool and the other 
from Bristol, insisted that in the county of Stafford 
the art of boxing was more generally cultivated than 
any where else ; and they adduced several instances of 
the brutality and barbarism of the people employed in 
the potteries, &c. Sheridan felt that his honour was 
concerned, and that he was called on to defend his own 
constituents, at least, from such injurious aspersions ; 
accordingly, he drew out his forces, and like other 
argumentators, and generals of the new school, he over¬ 
came his opponents by recrimination, or, rather, by 
carrying the war within the enemy’s own territories. 

“ I am not exactly aware, gentlemen, of the manner 
of fighting in the county of Stafford, having generally 
had some other business on hand when I travelled in 
that part of the world ; but I will relate to you the 
observations which I made when I resided in the West. 
The men of Somerset and Gloucester, particularly the 
colliers and other gentry of Bristol and the Forest of 
Dean, not only quarrel about the fair sex, as civilized 
nations generally do, but they actually love the game 
itself for its own sake. They knock up a fight for 
exercise, or for < a bit of vun just as it may happen ; 
and I remember a farmer whose five sons were famous 
for fighting every market-day, on their return from 
Bristol or Gloucester, by way of adjusting their seve- 



176 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


ral accounts. When their reverend and respected Sire 
was on his death-bed, he left his farm, which was a 
very good one, to his youngest son, saying, ‘ Ben can 
lather all vour o’ his brothers, an’ zo let he ha ’t.’ ” 

“ What a brute !” exclaimed the Liverpool gentle¬ 
man. 

“ Pardon me,” continued Sheridan,. “ they are much 
worse as you travel northward. I remember seeing a 
kick-bullocJc-and-bite contest between two Lancashire 
blades, in which one actually bit off the other’s nose. 
When some of the bystanders condoled with the maim¬ 
ed combatant on his misfortune, he exclaimed, 6 Nev¬ 
er moaind, I ha’ boitend off a piece of his-;’ saying 

which, he spat the amputated portion out of his mouth. ” 


An attorney one day meeting Mr. Sheridan walking 
with another gentleman in Piccadilly, told him that 
he had just been apprenticing his second daughter, a 
very pretty girl, to a fashionable dress-maker in Bond- 
street ; at the same time asking his opinion of this 
family arrangement. “ Depend upon it, Sir,” said 
Sheridan, •“ that she is in as fair a way of being ruin¬ 
ed, as a boy is to become a rogue,, when he is first put 
clerk to a lawyer !” 

This observation was accompanied by such a pene¬ 
trating look from Mr. Sheridan, that the man of law 
shrunk from it, as if conscious that he deserved the 
sting which it conveyed. 

When he was gone, Sheridan said, “How do you 
think that fellow once served me ?—Whilst pretending 
to befriend me on a certain occasion, and whilst declar¬ 
ing himself my friend and very humble servant, I 




mr. sheridan’s ready wit. 177 

found that he was urging one of my creditors to arrest 
me ; and that, too, when he knew that such a thing 
would have gone well nigh to ruin me. The scoun¬ 
drel does not suppose that I am aware of the fact; but, 
I think, I have mixed him up a dose of gall and vine¬ 
gar which will give him the mulligrubs for a month.’ 5 


178 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


XVII. 

SHERIDAN’S EARLY POETRY. 

Mr. Sheridan produced many epigrams and other 
lively poetical morceaux, particularly in his youthful 
days, which, it is feared, have long since been lost, or 
consigned to oblivion among the contents of the ephe- 
merides, and other similar “ tombs of all the Capulets.” 
The following Anacreontic address to the God of Wine 
appeared in the West Country Magazine, under the 
signature of Pindar Paul, Esq. whilst the author re¬ 
sided at Bath.—Would that Mr. Sheridan had always 
kept such moderation in view ! 

BACCHUS AND VENUS. 

Rosy God ! thy purple hoard 
Fain would I with rapture press; 

Drain libations at thy board, 

Quaffing joys, but not excess. 

If excess, thy power is done, 

Thy azure goblet crown’d in vain : 

Riot, madness—reason’s gone; 

Then succeeds an age of pain. 

Why, ivy-crowned King of Wine, 

Should excess thy blessings shame ) 

Why should Venus, all divine ! 

Hold thy votaries to blame ? 


mr. sheridan’s early poetry. 179 

Venus will not yield the palm, 

Nor your share of pleasure scan? 

Chloe owns the wine as balm. 

Invokes the God to aid the Man 

Come, then, laughter-loving youth, 

Round the myrtle wreath the vine; 

Charm’d with music, love, and truth. 

Drink the pledge,—’tis Love and Wine ! 


THE FOLLOWING NEAT EPIGRAM, 

ON IMPRISONMENT FOR DEBT, 
Was written nearly about the same time . 

Of old, to debtors that insolvent died, 

Egypt the rights of sepulture denied ? 

A different trade enlighten’d Christians drive. 
And charitably bury them alive . 


ON THE PROSPECT OF COACHES TO BE LAID 

DOWN IN 1798. 

Alas! must Mrs. Jackdaw lose her coach. 

And, level!’d with her betters , walk the street! 
Besides, how can she bear the rude approach 
Of sisters , aunts , and cousins , she may meet! 

I doubt not each expedient she will find,*— 

Thomas can keep the blackguards off behind? 

But still, ah ! still her case we must deplore, 

For who can keep the blackguards off before ? 


r 




180 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON* 


XVIII, 

SHERIDAN’S DEFEAT AT STAFFORD, 

Sheridan’s failure at the Stafford election, in 1812, 
was the cause of his total ruin ; more particularly as he 
had previously lost all interest in the theatre in Drury 
Lane. An ill-natured report prevailed at the time, 
that the Prince of Wales, considering his old friend 
and companion to be plunged irretrievably in misfor¬ 
tune, turned his back upon him, like the rest of the 
world, and left him to his fate : nay, one of the scurri¬ 
lous prints of the day, went so far as to assert that his 
Royal Highness, in reply to a request for assistance, 
thus addressed him :— u Sherry, my old boy, your day 
is gone by ; there are no boroughs now to be had, and 
I cannot possibly interfere. I always prophecied that 
you would end your days in a gaol !” Whatever in¬ 
fluence these gross calumnies might have had with the 
mob, they had no weight with, and were altogether 
discredited by, those who had the least knowledge of 
the parties. But that His Royal Highness was inca¬ 
pable of such conduct, is proved by the notorious fact, 
that, on this very occasion, he presented his unfortu¬ 
nate friend with four thousand pounds ; giving him 
the choice of putting that sum to his private uses, or 
of enabling him to be returned for Wootton Basset. 


MK. SHERIDAN ’s DEFEAT AT STAFFORD. 181 

Although Mr. Sheridan had a great desire to resume 
his seat in Parliament, he could not well stomach the 
idea of exchanging the representation of a populous 
and respectable town like Stafford, for that of a rotten 
borough. After some hesitation, therefore, he declin¬ 
ed it; and, no doubt, was considerably influenced in 
his decision, by the actual possession of so much rea¬ 
dy money , which would enable him to carry on the 
war , until something else should start up; for whilst 
the existing ministry remained .in power, and there 
appeared little likelihood of a change,—Mr. Sheridan 
had no prospect of coming in for a share of the loaves 
and Jishes; and he consequently saw little utility in 
wearing away his lungs, and perhaps losing his popu¬ 
larity, on a stage where he had already enacted his 
part with so much eclat. The disappointment, how¬ 
ever, preyed heavily on his spirits ; more particularly, 
as his fertile and comprehensive mind was now with¬ 
out any active employment. He did not fail, there¬ 
fore, on every suitable occasion, to bestow his hearty 
blessing on the worthy electors of Stafford, and that 
generally in the following terms :—“ A pack of rot¬ 
ten leather-heads , and be d—d to them !” alluding 
to the staple manufacture of the town in question, 
which is that of shoes. 

But Mr. Sheridan’s rejection was rendered still 
more galling, by the lampoons and general abuse with 
which the newspapers and other prints most ungene¬ 
rously assailed him at this period. Among other things 
of the same kind, he confessed that he felt considerable 
annoyance from the following squibs.— 

VOL. i. Q 


THE CLUES OF LONDON. 



ON A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN’S DISCOMFITURE 

AT STAFFORD. 

Sherry to Stafford lately hied ; 

Stafford, the great St. Crispin’s pride : 

He smooth’d his face, he went unshod; 

He swore, no shoes like their’s, by G—d J 
He had the Regent’s dread commands. 

Shoes should be worn on feet and hands I 
The Court had deem’d the fashion meet. 

That men should walk on hands and feet! 
st Give me your votes $ I ’ll do such things, 

I ’ll make you great as little kings!”— 

Crispin, who erst did Britons shield 
On Agincourt’s most glorious field, 

Look’d from a cloud in fierce disdain. 

And sent him back to Court again. 


IMPROMPTU. 

* ( Since Drury’s corps disown my sway. 
And Stafford’s cobblers hoot away. 
Betwixt St. Stephen’s and the Bench 
I must retire, or must retrench.” 
s ‘ Dear Sherry, by that ruby nose. 

That like my darling bev’rage glows,” 
The Regent cries, M Dismiss your fears. 
Cheer up, my lad, and dry your tears; 
Do what you will, you can’t be beat! 
In either case, you ’ll have a seat” 




mr. sheridan’s defeat at Stafford. 183 


A HINT TO MR. WHITBREAD’S ENTIRE COMMITTEE 

By a Quondam Manager.* 

u Since none with a pen will trust me but a goose, 

And paper of all kinds I’ve little now to use; 

To the verses writ by me, you may swear if you will, 

If inscrib’d on the back of a wine-merchant’s bill: 

But observe, should there be a receipt at the end on’t, 

Try again; they ’re not Sherry’s poetry, depend on’t.” 


The latter of these pasquinades, Mr. Sheridan de¬ 
clared to the writer, at Brookes’s, to be the “ unkind- 
est cut of all for that three-fourths of the stories 
which were told of him were utterly devoid of truth. 
u However,” continued he, “ I suppose I must bear 
with these things like a Philosopher : give a dog an 
ill name, and hang him out of the way at once 1 

* It is to be observed that the Committee of Management of the 
newly built Theatre in Drury Lane, had offered a premium of one 
hundred guineas for the best Prologue to be spoken at the open¬ 
ing of the house. The poets immediately set to work, among 
whom, it was said, Mr. Sheridan contributed a very spirited effu¬ 
sion i but his, like those of all the others, was declined by the ma¬ 
nagement, on the score of inefficiency : an application was made to 
Lord Byron, who produced, at a short notice, a very able prologue; 
but certainly not better written than several of those which had 
been refused. It was this contest among the Literati of the day, 
which gave the hint to the Smiths for the production of that most 
clever work, “ The Rejected Addresses.”—It is farther to be ob¬ 
served, that the Committee had suggested the necessity of each 
author adopting some cypher or private mark, (instead of his 
own name,) by which his piece might be recognised in case of 


success. 



184 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


Heigho ! fill, my dear friend, and let us drown care 
in a bumper. —The rascal now, who wrote that, I dare 
say, fancies himself a poet: why, the scribbler doesn’t 
keep within proper time or measure : he halts and hob¬ 
bles like a man with a wooden-leg in a meadow pick¬ 
ing cowslips.—Still the lines are clever for their point; 
although I don’t see how they can apply to me. These 
unlettered assassins of the press season their bubble- 
and-squeak messes according to the taste of the swinish 
multitude ; and when they have hashed up the victim 
of their ruffianism, they throw in a little sauce pi - 
quante, in order to tickle their palates, and make the 
maw-wallop go down pleasantly. Thus they please 
the pigs. But, presto ! the pigs and butchers be d—d ! 
here comes a fresh bottle, my dear friend ; so let us 
change the scene and subject.” 

In this manner would poor Sheridan, when stretched 
on the rack of a newspaper paragraph, alternately vi¬ 
tuperate and philosophise, and then fly, for the consola¬ 
tion of his wounded spirit, to his never-failing source 
of comfort—the bottle. Sometimes, however, his feel¬ 
ings were so agonized by neglect, insult, and the drea¬ 
riness of his future prospects, that he has shed tears 
like a child, whilst unbosoming himself to the writer 
of this. They were tears of bitterness and regret. But, 
at the period above mentioned, he may be said to have 
been in a tolerable state of equanimity and comfort; 
for, he had a considerable portion of the Prince’s gift 
still in banco , and he was never at a loss for some cle¬ 
ver ruse de guerre to escape the annoyance of his old 
friends the duns. Indeed, his whole life seems to 
have been one of expedients and shifts. 



mr. sheridan’s defeat at Stafford. 185 

It is now time to return to the more immediate sub¬ 
jects of this article ; viz. the worthy and independent 
electors of Stafford. Mr. Sheridan was a man who 
scorned to confer favours by halves ; therefore, whilst 
he advocated the rights and liberties of these gentry 
in the Senate, he was desirous of patronizing the 
trade of their town, by dipping into the books of all 
such as would give him credit. On all occasions, 
however, when he neither required their votes, a loan, 
or the renewal of a bill, he looked upon his constitu¬ 
ents with as thorough contempt as any Member that 
ever sat for an English borough. 

On one occasion, he received a pretty hard hit from 
one of the electors, as he was on a canvassing visit at 
Stafford. He was met in the streets by one of his old 
voters, a simple but substantial burgess, with whom he 
had formerly had some dealings of a pecuniary nature. 
This man accosted him as follows :—“ Well, Maister 
Sheridan, I be main glad to see you. How be ye, eh?’ 7 

“ Why, thank you, my friend, very well. I hope 
you and your family are well,” replied the candi¬ 
date. 

“Ay, ay,” answered the elector, “ they are pretty 
nobbling :—but they tell me, Maister Sheridan, as how 
you are trying to get a Palumentary Reform. Do yc 
think ye shall get it ?” 

“Why, yes,” said Sheridan, “I hope so.” 

“ And so do I,” replied his constituent, “ for then 
you ’ll be able to pay off the old election scores, shan’t 
ye?” 

He never forgave the Stafford people for throwing 
him out in 1812 ; and whenever they happened to be 

Q2 ' 



186 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


made the subject of conversation, he seldom failed to 
retaliate by some whimsical story of his electioneering 
adventures, wherein he took special care not to con¬ 
ceal their ignorance or avarice. He related the follow¬ 
ing characteristic anecdote one evening at Brookes’s, 
to several gentlemen who were bantering him on the 
subject of his defeat. 

When he was appointed Treasurer of the Navy, un¬ 
der the Whig Administration, his constituents deputed 
two of their enlightened body, one of whom was an 
alderman, to wait upon him for the purpose of refresh¬ 
ing his memory respecting certain promises which he 
had made of making all their fortunes, on the instant 
of his getting into office ! Accordingly, these two 
gentlemen, one of whom, no doubt, expected to be 
made an emperor, and the other an archbishop, waited 
upon Mr. Sheridan at his residence in Somerset House. 

“ Preliminary compliments having been disposed 
of,” said Sheridan, “ I asked them what was the more 
immediate purport of their visit ?” ‘ Why,’ replied the 
electors, ‘ we are come to congratulate you upon your 
getting into such a good place, and into such a fine 
house.’ ‘I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen, 
upon my word, and hope with your assistance to re¬ 
tain the one and inhabit the other, for many years to 
come.’ 4 1 wish ye may,’ replied the alderman, 4 with 
all my heart ; but you know, Mr. Sheridan, there are 
some old bills standing.’ ‘And there they must stand 
for the present,’ I replied, ‘ for I can do nothing for 
you now in the way of cash, as I have not received a 
farthing yet from my office.’ ‘True, true, Mr. Sheri¬ 
dan,’ returned the alderman, ‘ we can hardly expect 
payment yet; but you surely won’t forget your pro 


mr. sheridan’s defeat at Stafford. 187 

mise to provide your friends with good places, now you 
have got into a snug birth yourself.’ 6 Oh, certainly 
not,’ I replied ; ‘ as soon as the necessary arrangements 
are completed, I mean to put half a hundred of you 
into the excise, as many more into the public offices 
as clerks, and the rest, I suppose, may be comfortably 
provided for as officers, either in the army or navy. I 
have only to regret that I can do nothing for the ladies; 
but I suppose they will be pretty well pleased when 
they see their husbands and sons taken care of.’^- 
5 Certainly, certainly, your right honourable worship,’ 
replied the other man, who was a master shoemaker; 
i and we hope you will show no favour, but treat us 
all alike.’ I, of course, assured them that there should 
be no partiality manifested in the distribution of my 
favours: and so, sending my respects to the whole 
corporation, I bowed my visiters to the drawing-room 
door, and with a most patronizing smile, and a hearty 
shake of the hand, wished them a pleasant journey 
back to Stafford : and I assure you, gentlemen, I was 
glad enough to have got off so easily, for I expected a 
rumpus with the alderman,—to whom, by the by, I 
happened to owe a small score for wine and beer fur¬ 
nished to my committee.” 

“ I dare say you did, Sherry,” said Sir Thomas 
Stepney ; “ I have little doubt but you dived to the 
bottom of the alderman’s cellar, before he had time 
to look about him.—How many pipes did you drink 
among you ?” 

“My dear Tom,” returned Sheridan, “if you in¬ 
terrupt me, you will lose the best part of my story.” 

“ Why, I thought you had packed them off to Staf¬ 
ford ?” observed the Earl of Sefton, 


I8S 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“So thought I, my dear Lord,” replied Sheridan* 
“but in a few seconds one of them,—the shoemaker, 
-—without being observed by his companion, returned 
into the room to get a frank , for the purpose of en¬ 
closing a letter to his wife, as he did not intend to leave 
town for a few days. His friend, the alderman, had 
nearly got to the bottom of the stairs before he missed 
•him ; when, turning his head, he instantly suspected 
foul play, and rushing back up the stairs, he met his 
companion at the door, just at the moment that he was 
putting the frank into his pocket. This was enough 
—the enraged wine-merchant dashed into my apart¬ 
ment, and with clenched fists, and eyes sparkling with 
fury, exclaimed, 6 D —n me, if I didn’t always think 
you were a scamp, Sheridan !’ 

“I was struck with astonishment, as you may well 
imagine, and hastily inquired what was amiss? 

4 Amiss !’ roared out my constituent; ‘ didn’t you say 
you would treat us all alike ? What have you been 
giving to him there ?’—‘ Giving to him !’ I answered 
with surprise ; 6 why nothing but a frank for his wife.’ 

4 Well, then,’ replied the alderman, 6 if that be really 
the case, give me one too, and let it be just like his.’— 
This demand I immediately complied with, and he 
took his leave perfectly satisfied.”* 

* As a set-off to the reputation of not fulfilling* his promises to his 
constituents,, which Mr. Sheridan gave to himself in the above anec¬ 
dote, it ought to be mentioned to his honour, that on one occasion, 
he actually did keep his word with the natives of Stafford. Num¬ 
bers of those who voted for him, or their friends and relatives, 
were appointed to various offices in Drury-lane Theatre and the 
*lpera House. In a short time, however, he found opportunities 


MR. SHERIDAN’S DEFEAT AT STAFFORD. 189 

This anecdote greatly amused the party to whom it 
was related ; and Mr. Sheridan was several times af¬ 
terwards requested to repeat it to those gentlemen who 
had not heard it on the first narration $ and this he did 
with inimitable humour, 

of obliging new friends; for, alas ! more than four-fifths of his first 
eorps of protegees were compelled to relinquish their situations, 
from receiving no pay ! 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


190 


PITT, R—E, AND DUN DAS. 

Of this celebrated trio, several curious anecdotes 
were, on one occasion, related at Brookes’s. Mr. She¬ 
ridan commenced the series, by the following laugh¬ 
able account of 

MR. PITT’s MIDNIGHT REHEARSALS. 

It must be premised, that, during the whole of Mr. 
Pitt’s political career, he was a complete slave to bu¬ 
siness ; indeed, so much was his mind occupied with 
affairs of state, that, generally speaking, he went to 
bed at night only to dream of the labours of the day. 
He took little recreation ; and when prevailed upon to 
go to a fashionable party, he seldom stayed long. Even 
whilst he did remain, his mind was so liable to revert 
to the business of the morning, that, though highly 
respected for his private worth by all who knew him, 
his company was not considered to be entirely indis¬ 
pensable ., particularly by the ladies. Mr. Fox, on 
the contrary, had a mind highly susceptible of the 
pleasures of society ; which by no means detracted 
from his capability of performing the arduous duties 
belonging to his public character.—But to return to 
Mr. Pitt. 


PITT, R-E, AND DUNDAS. 


191 


It was his frequent custom, when he left the House 
of Commons, to call at the residence of Lord Melville, 
to spend an hour or two, before retiring to Bachelor’s 
Hall —as the Dutchess of Gordon very aptly styled 
the minister’s own lonely habitation. 

One evening, fatigued by a speech of more than 
three hours in length, he arrived at his friend’s house 
in a state of profuse perspiration. Lord Melville (then 
Mr. Dundas) instantly ordered clean linen to be pro¬ 
vided, and insisted on the Premier staying all night; 
as the damp air, in going home, might prove injurious 
to him in such a condition. Mr. Pitt complied, and 
soon afterwards retired to rest. 

He had been in bed about an hour, when a female 
servant, passing the door of his chamber, heard a loud 
noise, as of one talking with great rapidity and energy. 
She immediately ran, in the most violent agitation and 
alarm, into the butler’s pantry, where that domestic 
and Mr. Pitt’s valet were sitting comfortably over a 
glass of arrack punch. 

i 6 For God Almighty’s sake!” she roared out, 
“Richard, run directly to your master; for he’s a 
dying !” 

“ Dying !” exclaimed the valet, rising ; “ Good 
God ! what makes you think so, Betty ?” 

“ Oh !” returned the terrified girl, “ I heard him 
saying his prayers, so loud and so fast, that I am sure 
he must be dead before this time.” 

“Lord bless the girl !” said the man, sitting down 
to finish his punch, “ how could you go for to frighten 
one so ? He’s no more a dying than you are, Betty : 
he’s only making a speech for the House to-morrow ; 
and I dare say, that as he is speechifying so loud, he 


192 


TllE CLUBS OF LONDON, 


is a blowin’ up the old Fox and the Wigs. Ah, h6's 
the boy for giving it ’em, right and left, I can tell you, 
Betty.” 

“ Blowin’ up the Fox and the Wigs , Master Dick ! 
Why, what’s that, for heaven’s sake ?” 

“ Oh, Bet, my girl,” answered Richard ; “it’s no 
use telling you : women understands nothin’ ofpol’tics: 
—do they, Master Butler ?” 

“No, Dick,” responded the butler, “that they 
don’t, an’ it isn’t fit they should; for if they knew what 
was what, they’d soon wear the breeches, I know.— 
But, I say, Dick, push about the grog, an’ let us go an’ 
hear what your master is goin’ to say to old Charley 
to-morrow.” 

“ No occasion for hurrying, man,” replied Richard.,' 
emptying his glass, and filling another bumper : “ bless 
your soul ! he hasn’t got into the thick of it yet, I ’ll 
be bound. We’ve plenty o’ time ; so sit down, and 
let us finish the toddy : it’ll be two hours, at least, be¬ 
fore he’s done. Lord ! it ’ll do your heart good to 
hear him firin’ away at the rascally hopposition, just 
the self-same as he gives it ’em in the House. Bless 
you, he always Eposes his speech for the next day , 
before he goes to sleep.—Come, Mistress Betty, drink 
that, my girl,” (handing her a glass,) “ it’ll warm you, 
and take away your fright.” 

Betty drank the contents, and feeling herself greatly 
revived thereby, and her curiosity nothing abated, 
ventured again to inquire what the valet meant by 
blowin'’ up the Fox and the Wigs. 

“Why, you fool,” answered Dick, “don’t you 
know that the Fox is that rascally Charley Fox, as 
wishes to bring in Boneypart and the French ?” 


PITT, R—E, AND DUNDAS. 


193 


i( What for, Master Richard ?” inquired Betty. 

“What for?” echoed Dick. “Why to kill King 
George, to be sure, and put the Prince o’ Wales on 
his throne ; ay, and to oust my master, that he may 
get into his place himself!” 

“ What a wicked villain !” exclaimed Betty : “but 
do tell me what is the Wigs . ? ” 

“ Why, the Wigs is them as backs Charley, and 
wishes to get all the pensions and snug births to them¬ 
selves,” answered the valet. 

“ But why do you call them Wigs inquired the 
persevering housemaid. 

“’Faith I can’t tell that, Betty,” replied Dick; 
“but, perhaps, Mister Butler knows.” 

“It is impossible to say,” responded the butler, 
laughing, “unless that the Tories think thema set o’ 
stoopids, that wears block-heads on their shoulders !” 

“ Well !” exclaimed Dick, “if that isn’t the very 
thing I was a thinking of myself; but do you know 
why them as sits on master's side in the House, are 
called Tories ?” 

“ Yes,” answered the confident butler : “Tories is 
Latin for them as have good places to give away.— 
But, come along, and let us see what your master is 
about.” 

Away went this trio up-stairs, creeping softly on 
tiptoe, until they arrived at the Premier’s chamber- 
door ; and there, sure enough, they heard him declaim¬ 
ing in grand style. They, as we have seen, ignorantly 
supposed that Mr. Pitt was rehearsing his speech for 
the morrow ; but the fact was, that, according to his 
general custom, as noticed on similar occasions, by se¬ 
veral of his relatives, he teas repeating , during his 

vol. i. R 


194 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


slumber, the whole of the arguments which he had 
used in the House of Commons , during the earlier 
'part of the evening .* 

The risibility of Sheridan’s auditors was greatly ex¬ 
cited by the above story ; and Mr. Fox prevented 
their mirth from flagging, by the relation of two di¬ 
verting anecdotes, of which the following are but faint 
sketches. 


MINISTERIAL ASSURANCE. 

During Mr. Pitt’s sway in the Cabinet, whenever 
any assertion was to be made by the Ministers in the 
House, which required more than ordinary gravity to 
ensure belief, George R—e was the person generally 
employed to make it; more particularly, if the subject 

* Similar to Mr. Pitt’s assiduity in public business, and abstrac¬ 
tion from the pleasures of social life, was that of George Grenville, 
Chancellor of the Exchequer. During the recess of Parliament, 

in the year-, he was invited into Hertfordshire, to spend some 

time at the house of a nobleman ; who, amongst other attentions-, 
hearing that he was fond of music, gave a grand concert$ for the 
performance of which, he had collected the best singers and musi¬ 
cians in the metropolis. 

In the midst of a very fine piece, however, Mr. Grenville (whose 
head was filled with little else than politics, and the more particular 
business of his own office,) got into a whispering conversation with 
a Member of Parliament, who sat near him, about some bill which 
was to be brought forward early in the next session.—In the course 
of this colloquy, he frequently used his pencil, to make calcu¬ 
lations. 

This apparent insult being felt by the noble host, as evincing a 
great degree of inattention, he observed upon it to the witty 
George Selwyn, who was present. “ Pho ! pho! man,” said Sel- 
wyn, “ Grenville likes your concert very well; but, by G—d ! a 
pen and ink are to him, meat , drink , t cashing, and lodging” 




PITT, R-E, AND DUNDAS. 


195 


matter related to the “ blessings of the Christian Reli¬ 
gion, as by law established !” or such like. 

One night, it being necessary to put him forward 
on this particular point of duty, he arose, assumed a 
grave aspect, placed his hand on his left breast, and 
prefaced what he intended to say, with an appeal to 
his conscience ; “ calling to witness the Ruler of the 
Universe, and the Searcher of all hearts V 9 Mr. Pitt, 
who was rather fresh, had his eye on him, and in a fit 
of admiration at his unblushing audacity, turned round 
to Wyndham, who sat beside him, saying, “Now list¬ 
en !—George is going to tell a d—d lie !”—When 
the orator had concluded, Pitt cried out, (6 Hear! 
hear!” and leaning towards him, congratulated him 
on his assurance ! 


DUNDAS AND THE BARBER. 

Before Henry Dundas, afterwards Lord Melville, 
had obtained the patronage of Scotland, he was not 
very popular with the natives of that country :—in¬ 
deed, the inhabitants of the gude toon of Edinbro’, at 
one time, sought his life, and would have sacrificed 
him to their fury, for having been concerned in certain 
measures to which the general opinion was opposed. 

In this state of the public mind, he made a visit to 
the Scottish capital, and being one day recognised 
walking on the North Bridge, or Mound, he was sur¬ 
rounded by an immense mob, who hustled him in a 
very rude manner, and made preparations for throwing 
him over the parapet. Luckily, he happened to have 
a considerable quantity of money in his pocket, in the 
shape of notes and silver, which he had the presence 



196 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


of mind to throw, alternately, among them, so as to 
divert their attention, whilst he made all possible 
way for the mansion of the Lord Provost; where, af¬ 
ter great difficulty, and having disposed of his last 
shilling, he arrived and found refuge and protection. 

The mob increased, however, and surrounded the 
Chief Magistrate’s house, crying vehemently, “Put 
out Dundas ! put out Dundas 1” and behaved other¬ 
wise in a very riotous manner. At length, the Pro¬ 
vost, fearing they would proceed to extremities* came 
out and addressed them on the duties of hospitality, 
and on the ancient and uniform character of the Scots 
for the exercise of that virtue; and concluded by say¬ 
ing, that “ he himself would prefer falling a victim to 
their fury, rather than eject any person who had 
Sought the asylum of his roof.” This was an appeal 
which no Scotchman could withstand, more particu¬ 
larly as it came from a man, whose amenity of charac¬ 
ter and mild disposition had rendered him generally 
beloved.—Having given the Provost three cheers,, 
they quietly dispersed to their houses. 

Whilst he remained in Edinburgh on this occasion, 
Mr. Dundas took care not to show himself again in 
the streets, but soon took his departure for London. 

Soon afterwards, being obliged to revisit his native 
country, and knowing the storm had blown over, he 
met with a very odd adventure, but one which terri¬ 
fied, him equally, if not more so, than that on the 
North Bridge. It seems that he had recently been 
accessary to some other obnoxious measure ; not, how¬ 
ever, of such general importance as the former one :—- 
it was such as to keep alive the public feeling, though 
not sufficient to blow it into actual flame. In this state 


PITT, R-E, AND DUNDAS. 


197 


of things he arrived at an hotel in Edinburgh, and next 
morning sent for a barber to shave him. 

The Tonsor, who happened to be a wag, on entering 
the room, saluted Mr. Dundas and welcomed him to 
Edinburgh. Then having decorated him with an apron, 
he began to lather his face ; during which operation, 
he cast upon him sundry scowling and penetrating 
glances, the meaning of which the stranger could not 
well comprehend. At length, flourishing his razor, 
he said in a sharp and stern voice,— 

“We are much obliged to you, Mr. Dundas, for 
the part you lately took in London.” 

“ What!” replied the Secretary, “you are a politi¬ 
cian, I find ?—I sent for a barber .” 

“ Oh yes,” returned the knight of the pewter basin, 
“I ’ll shave you directly ;” which he did, until one- 
half of the beard was cleanly mowed ; when, coming 
to his throat, he drew the back of the razor across it,' 
saying, “Take that, ye traitor!”—and off he ran, 

down-stairs, into the street- 

Whether Mr. Dundas had previously felt any unea¬ 
siness at the barber’s manner, we know not; but the 
latter expression—the action being so well suited to 
the word,—induced him instantly to apply the apron 
to his throat, and to make a loud guggling noise, which 
being heard by some of the people of the house, they 
immediately ran to his assistance. They soon discover¬ 
ed, by the pantomimic gestures of Mr. Dundas, what 
had occurred, and it was not long before the room was 
full of members of the Faculty, of all degrees :— 
apothecaries, surgeons, and physicians ! It was a con¬ 
siderable time before the patient could be prevailed on 
to remove the apron and expose his throat; but at 

r 2 


198 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON*. 


length, when he did so, with much caution—it was 
found to be in a perfectly whole state ; there not being 
even a scar visible ! 

Though Mr. Dundas had much reason to be delight¬ 
ed at having escaped unhurt, he was not a little mor¬ 
tified at the laugh which this adventure occasioned ; 
and his chagrin was greatly increased when he found 
that he had to pay for the attendance of the medical 
gentlemen :—which having done, and having shaved 
the other side of his face himself,—for he would trust 
no more barbers,—he decamped from Edinburgh, and 
did not return for many years. 



mE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C\ 


199 


X2L 

THE IRISH PEASANTRY AND THEIR 

PASTORS. 

The conversation one evening turning on the abject 
submission of the Irish to their Catholic priesthood* 
an Irish gentleman said, “ that though his countrymen 
were a weak people, they were not so much led by the 
nose by their spiritual pastors r as persons who did 
not know them generally imagined. 

“ Thanks, however,” said he, “to the rapacity and 
insolence of the Protestant clergy, with their army of 
tithe-proctors and other harpies, the links of the iron 
chain of superstition are more closely rivetted between 
Paddy and his praist than they would be if oppres¬ 
sion ceased to stalk with such horrible strides through¬ 
out the land ; yet, after all, it is only in affairs of reli¬ 
gion that the Irish Catholic submits to the dictation 
of the priesthood. On these points he does nothing 
by halves. Of the infallibility of his church he does 
not permit himself to harbour the shadow of a doubt; 
but believes implicitly that she has the power to grant 
him absolution for the most atrocious crimes, or to 
consign him to eternal damnation if the excommuni¬ 
cating ban be not taken off by suitable submission and 
contrition. This power he considers to he as certain 


200 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON* 


as that the snow falls in winter, or that the sun shines' 
in summer.” 

THE PENANCE. 

“ I will give you an instance,” he continued, “among 
many which I could mention, of the great power of 
the Catholic clergy, from whose sentence there is no 
appeal ; indeed the least resistance would have involv¬ 
ed the culprit in misery without end, for he would 
have become an outcast from society. In such a case, 
a man’s own father dare not speak to, or assist him, 
were he in the greatest emergency or danger. 

“You must know, in the first place, Gentlemen, 
that the Protestants having taken all the lands and liv¬ 
ings, churches and cathedrals, from the Catholics, the 
only certain means of subsistence that the priests have, 
are what, in this country, are called surplice fees; that 
is, fees for marriages, christenings, and burials : now, 
these are necessarily very high, and in many cases op¬ 
pressive,—that for marriage being between three and 
four pounds sterling. 

“ One Saturday afternoon I was told, that next 
morning, at a chapel two miles distant from my house, 
there was to be rather a novel mode of penance per¬ 
formed by a man named Phelim M’Murrough, who 
had married one of my farm servants, several days 
before. He was an ostler and postboy at a small inn 
on the road-side, where a ricketty chaise and a pair of 
miserable horses were kept for the occasional use of 
travellers. 

“When he married Dolly Milligan, like most Irish¬ 
men of his rank , he had not a tenpenny to bless himself 
with; but Dolly had been a saving girl, and not only had 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 201 

provided a few small things in the way of bedding and 
other household matters, but likewise put into Phe- 
lim’s hand the prodigious sum of five pounds, which 
she had scraped together during her days of maiden¬ 
hood and servitude. In fact, this girl, take her for all 
in all, was considered a fortune by the young fellows 
in the neighbourhood. She had set her heart, how¬ 
ever, on Phelim, who was a smart curly-headed little 
fellow ; and no doubt his rusty red jacket, leath ' 
breeches,—which once were yellow, and ha 1 n 
worn by some cavalier at the battle of the Loyne,— 
brown-black velvet cap, and top boots to match, as¬ 
sisted greatly in the conquest of her heart. 

“ A day or two before his marriage, Phelim, who 
never before had so much money in his possession, re¬ 
flected deeply on the hardship of parting with four- 
fifths of it to the priest, for the mere performance of a 
ceremony ; which he by no means considered an equi¬ 
valent for parting with such a treasure. 

Dolly, my darling,’ said he, turning over the 
tenpennies (for the hoard was all in silver), 6 I ’ve just 
been thinking that if Father M’Donough would only 
trust me, and let us be married on tick this once, how 
I could go to the fair next week and buy a pig or two ^ 
—the craturs would have a litter shortly, and when 
the little ones got big, sure we’d make a fortin by 
them. I could promise dhe Father a green ham and 
a sucking pig, and I dare say he’d consent.’ 

“ Dolly thought the plan exceedingly feasible ; and 
away went Phelim to the priest to make his proposi¬ 
tion. The latter good-naturedly consented to this ar¬ 
rangement, and Phelim and Dolly were as happy as 


202 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


any couple that ever were joined in the bonds of ma¬ 
trimony. 

“ On the fourth or fifth morning of the honey-moon, 
Phelim, having the tenpennies in a leathern bag, post¬ 
ed off to the fair, a few miles off. Here he unfortu¬ 
nately met with some of his boon companions, whom, 
in the fulness of his heart, he treated all round. They 
drank poiyeen till all was blue ; and in the plenitude 
of present happiness he forgot Dolly, the pigs, and the 
priest. 

66 He had unfortunately told his friends the errand 
he was come upon, and triumphantly exhibited the 
contents of his bag. This excited the cupidity of the 
landlord of the whiskey-shop, who contrived to breed 
a quarrel between his guests; the termination of 
which was a grand roiu, in which Phelim lost his 
bag of tenpennies, but received a broken head in ex¬ 
change. 

“ It is unnecessary to describe the grief of poor 
Dolly, when she saw the pitiable plight in which her 
husband returned to the cabin ; but when she heard of 
the total loss of her hard-earned treasure, her despair 
knew no bounds. Her wretched state of mind, how¬ 
ever, was, if possible, aggravated by the story coming 
to the ears of M’Donough, who saw no means of his 
fees being paid, but by the instant sale of their little 
household effects. 

“ At this proposition, which was made to Phelim, 
as he lay on the bed with his head tied up, the poor 
fellow was struck with horror and dismay : he groan¬ 
ed for some time in agony ; but at length, unwilling¬ 
ly, gave his consent. This roused Dolly to a sense of 
the danger which hung over them; she foresaw the 


203 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 

dreariness of their future prospects, and she entreat¬ 
ed the priest not to turn them out of house and 
home. 

u The priest, who really was himself in great need, 
absolutely refused to grant any lenity. Dolly, there¬ 
fore, who was not so tractable as her husband, at 
length put the question to rest, by taking an c oath to 
the Holy Vargin, that not a stick should be moved 
out of the house to please e’er a praist in Chris¬ 
tendom.’ 

“ ‘Then,’ said M’Donough, ‘I’ll give Phelim 
such a pinance as was niver seen or heard of in this 
world or the next.’—Having said this, he departed 
from the cottage, exceeding wroth. 

u Phelim’s wounds being nearly healed, he was 
summoned before the holy father, who lectured him 
severely on the crime of drunkenness; but more 
particularly on the heinous one of ingratitude and 
roguery to his. priest, which he designated as the sin 
against the Holy Ghost !—In conclusion, he enjoined 
upon him the penance of fasting and praying in a 
greater degree than usual, the chastisement of his 
body by flagellation night and morning, and absti¬ 
nence from the marriage bed, for six months: besides 
standing in the chapel during the performance of 
mass, for three Sundays successively, having a sad 
die on his back and a bridle in his mouth !—All 
this was to be strictly performed, under pain and 
penalty of excommunication. 

“ The poor bride and bridegroom were in a sad 
state of mind when this dreadful sentence was pro¬ 
nounced. Dolly, however, who had but a small por¬ 
tion of the penance to endure, thus consoled her bus- 


2t)4 THE CHUBS OF LONDON. 

band :— 1 Niver mind, Phelim, my dear;—take the 
pi nance; take it any how : better that, than be turn¬ 
ed out of house and home, without a bit to ate , or a 
blankit to cover us. Ye needn't lay the bating on 
very heavy, Phelim, as nobody 'll be bye to see ye:— 
I can go to sarvice the while; and sure the six months 
won’t last for ever; and maybe, by that time, the 
master '11 give me a pig, if I ax him and tell him our 
misfortin.’— 

“The instant I was informed of this transaction, I 
resolved to put a speedy end to the maceration of poor 
Phelim’s body. Accordingly, next morning, I walk¬ 
ed over to the chapel, and there, sure enough, I wit¬ 
nessed the disgraceful sight of a priest-ridden human 
being, standing ready saddled and bridled in the midst 
of the congregation! 

“ I held up my finger to M'Donough, who was 
just going to begin his sermon, and he came out. I 
remonstrated with him on the barbarity—the brutal¬ 
ity of this transaction; threatening to report him to 
his Diocesan. He made answer that he was compelled 
to it for his own safety ; for if M'Murrough got off, 
subordination would be at an end, and all future 
bridegrooms would play him the same trick. 

“ I agreed to the justness of his argument, and paid 
him his fee on the spot, on his agreeing to unhorse 
the poor man, and promising to give him absolution 
at the end of the service. He insisted, however, on 
the propriety of keeping Phelim to his prayers and 
fasting, in order to serve as a warning to others. 
‘Why,' said I, ‘as to the prayers, you may do as 
you please, for I have nothing to do with his soul : 
my concern is with his body, so we '11 drop the fast - 


205 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 

mg, if you please; for, I dare say, the poor fellow 
has had his belly full of that already.’ 

“This arrangement being agreed on, the priest 
mounted the pulpit, and thus addressed the culprit:— 
£ Aren’t ye ashamed of yourself, Phelim M’Murrough,’ 
said he, 4 to be standing there like a horse in full ar¬ 
mour ! Ye’ve been guilty of a grate and wicked sin, 
ye have, ye reprobate !—instade of buying the pigs, 
to get drunk and lose all the money which were the 
just dues of me, your lawful praist ;—ye know they 
were, Phelim. But I forgive ye, as in duty bound to 
his honur, who has intersaded for you and paid the 
money,—every copper ; so, take off the saddle and 
bridle, and fall down on your knees to his honur, 
who has done ye so great a kindness.—Let me see ye 
in the Confessional after divine sarvice is over.’ 

“The priest enjoined certain prayers on the peni¬ 
tent, who was glad enough to escape thus easily. 
When he came out on the green he expressed a mul¬ 
titude of thanks, and would have gone on his knees to 
express his gratitude, had I permitted him. I advised 
him to be more careful in future ; never again to drink 
potyeen , and to mind what his priest had said to him 
on that subject; also to come to the Castle for Dolly, 
in the evening, when they should both drive a couple 
of pigs home to their cottage. 

“ The poor fellow’s gratitude now knew no bounds : 
he danced and capered about like a madman, and said, 
t b v J— s? your honur’s the true jontleman, after all. 

_Dolly and mysilf will take an oath to the Virgin, 

this very blessed night, niver to taste a drop of put- 
yeen at all at all,—barrin’ at a christening or so ; and 
as for the pinnance that I am going to get from Father 


VOL. i. 


2 Ob 


THE CLUES 0E LONDON. 


M’Donough, I won’t mind it the value of a porati peel¬ 
ing ; for Dolly will say the prayers with me, and we’ll 
niver forgit to remimber yer honur in them, wishing 
ye long life in this world and the next one after it.’ ” 


The company were highly amused by this story ; 
but one of them observing that the narrator had failed 
to demonstrate the position which he had laid down at 
the commencement, and indeed that Phelim’s blind 
submission rather tended to prove the reverse ; the 
gentleman thus continued :— 

u 

“ You are so far right, Sir; but you are to observe 
that Phelim’s offence came strictly within the cogni¬ 
zance of his priest. Had M’Donough presumed to 
meddle with his amusements or his occupation, or with 
any other matter not strictly religious —that is, in the 
way of reprehension —Phelim would instantly have 
hoisted the standard of rebellion.—It is in the perform¬ 
ance of their clerical functions that the Irish peasan¬ 
try respect their priesthood : when the surplice is laid 
aside, religious awe hangs with it on the same peg. 

“ Thus, we daily see the priest enter into mixed 
society, where he is welcomed as a boon companion, 
with ‘Hail fellow, well met !’ there, he jokes with 
the jester, laughs and sings with the merry, drinks 
with the thirsty, is jovial with the jolly, and quaffs 
off his native beverage with as much good-will as any 
toper among them all. At the altar, in the confession¬ 
al, in the pulpit, and in the sick-chamber, he is every 
inch a priest, and his very finger nails are held sacred:— 
every where else he is an Irishman : he feels himself 
such, and as such is he treated. Of this, and of the 



THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 207 

immoral and degraded state of the people in general, 

I will give you an example. 

THE PENKNIFE. 

“ I was one day informed,—some years ago, that a 
regular shilelagh fight was to take place in the pro¬ 
vince of Munster, between two large parties, on the 
next Sunday, immediately after mass. In these bar¬ 
barous combats, which I had frequently been successful 
in repressing, and which generally arose from a quar¬ 
rel between two individuals, bloodshed was not un¬ 
common ; indeed, I have sometimes known one or two 
to be killed on each side. I was resolved to prevent 
this one from taking place, as the intended scene of 
action was not above eight miles from my own door. 

i( Accordingly I rode to the spot; but, on entering 
the chapel, perceived the congregation to be apparent¬ 
ly so devout in the performance of their religious du¬ 
ties, and joining with so much fervour in the prayers 
and responses, that I thought some one had played off 
a hoax upon me. I waited until the conclusion of the 
service, and was exceedingly well pleased with the 
becoming demeanour which reigned throughout the 
assembly. 

“ As I was going out, however, I observed the men 
range themselves in two parties, to the number of 
about one hundred on each side : each assumed an at¬ 
titude of defiance ; and I saw from this, and by the 
almost instantaneous erection of two or three drinking 
booths, that hostilities would soon commence, if not 
speedily prevented. 

“ The priest, who had disrobed himself of his ca¬ 
nonicals, soon joining his flock upon the green-sward, 



208 


THE CLUBS QF LONDON. 


and appearing to assume the functions of Master oj 
the Ceremonies , I thus addressed him,—‘ Father Cro- 
ley,’ said I, ‘ there shall be no fight to-day, I promise 
you : I have come to prevent it.’ 

“‘No fight!’ exclaimed the holy father; ‘ yer 
honur sure won’t he so hard-hearted as to prevint the 
boys * from having a bit of sport, just by way of re- 
frishment after the sarvice !’ 

“ ‘ Let them sport , by all means,’ I replied ; ‘ but I 
understood that there was to be a fight with staves ; 
and I can perceive by the preparations now on foot, 
that there will be considerable bloodshed, if you do 
not join your influence with mine to prevent it.’ 

“ ‘ Bless and save yer honur’s heart and sowl for 
iverlasting !’ replied the priest; ‘ I’m afraid yer hon¬ 
ur ’ll have a hard job of it to stop the boys ; and, as for 
me, they don’t care a copper for what I say about any 
thing that isn’t in their Credo or Paternosthur !’ 

“ ‘ Very likely !’ I returned; ‘but were you, in 
private life, to practise those precepts which your re¬ 
ligion enjoins you to preach in the pulpit, your influ¬ 
ence in repressing disorder among these poor people 
would be all-sufficient ; but, here do I find your Re¬ 
verence countenancing by your presence, and, I fear, 
encouraging by your example, not only a breach of 
the peace, but also the commission of an act of the 
most savage barbarity—nay, even of murder itself !’ 

“ ‘Yer honur’s too hard upon me,’ replied Father 
Croley ; ‘I take the blessed Vargin to witness, that I 

* This is the common designation of males of all ages in Ire¬ 
land :—hence the term White-boys , from wearing shirts or smock 
frocks over their clothes, for disguise in the rebellion, &c.— Gos¬ 
soon is the Irish term for boy or young lad— Gar con., Fr, 


209 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 

didn’t mane to touch stick or stone, and that I only 
intinded to stand by and see fair play among the boys ; 
for they haven’t had a riglar fight this many a-day, 
and sure enough they’re all aiger for it.’ 

“ An old man with wrinkled brow, whose few grey 
hairs hardly covered his temples ; and who, though 
perfectly erect and athletic, appeared to be of the full 
age of seventy-five, now stepped forward from among 
the throng of women and children who were assembled 
round the booths. Jn the chapel I had observed this 
man’s countenance ; and it appeared to me* actually to 
beam forth the rays of devotion and sanctity. 

“ Taking off his greasy cap, and making a rude obei¬ 
sance, he thus addressed me : 6 Yer honur’s in the 
right of it entirely ; and I’ll bare witness to that same. 
If it wasn’t for that d—d thaif of a praist, sure the 
boys would never fight at all at all :—he’s always a- 
breiden quarrels among us.’ 

“Father Croley exclaimed in reply, ‘Yer honur ! 
don’t believe a word that the ould vagabond says. Tim 
Reardon, ye stole my penknife, last week ; ye know 
ye did, ye reprobate o’ the world !’ 

“ ‘Me stale his pinknife !’ roared out the old man, 
•'Oh ! the Heavenly Father ! look down upon us this 
day ! Me stale yer durty pinknife, ye lousy black- 
gaard ! Yer honur ! if ve’ll believe me, and / wouldn’t 
tell a lie for all Ireland for my potati garden, that 
man is the greatest rogue in the whole seven parishes.’ 

‘‘ ‘ Get along out o’ that, ye rapparree !’ exclaimed 
the priest, raising a hand-whip, and coming up towards 
Tim in a threatening attitude. 

“ ‘Oh ! by J -s, my dear, if ye’re for that fun, 

ye’ll get yer bellyful in no time,’ retorted Tim, as he 



2 10 


THE CLUES OF LONDON. 


seized a shilelagh from one of the bystanders, and pm 
himself in a posture of defence. 

<C4 Come, come,’ said I, ( let us have no quar¬ 
rels. 5 

C6 6 By the powers though, master, sure I’m not to 
be put upon by such a spalpeen as that,’ returned the 
old man. c Just look now at that loaded whip the bul¬ 
ly has in his hand ! Only wait now, till ye’re about 
half-way on yer road home, and when he has drunk 
about a gallon of punch,—-it’s then ye’ll see how he ’ll 
be knocking us all about with that flail of a scourge of 
his !—Oh 1 the villain ! to go for to say that I stole his 
pinknife—sure I’d scorn to do that same!’ 

“ ( Ye’re a robber, Tim,’ persevered Father Croley } 
and ye know well ye’re that same.’ 

cf 4 1 take the Holy G--t to witness, yer honur,’ 

said Tim, turning to me, ‘ that I niver stould any 
thing in all my born days, barrin’ dhe four pound of 
bacon that I lifted by accident, and for which I got 
my reward in Cork gaol.’ 

“ ‘ Swear him, yer honur : swear him on the Holy 
Gospels,’ retorted Father Croley, taking a Latin Testa¬ 
ment out of his pocket, 6 and then ye ’ll see if the ould 
raskill didn’t steal my pinknife.’ 

On hearing this proposition, and on seeing the 
book, the countenance of the old man fell, and it ap¬ 
peared to me that he was guilty : but from this impres¬ 
sion I was soon relieved ; for having said, in reply to 
the priest’s urgent entreaties to administer the oath, 
that I should do no such thing, for it was too trivial 
an affair to make a matter of conscience of, Tim’s fea¬ 
tures became animated, and he exclaimed, 6 Oh ! 
>,—and ’ounds, master, give me the oath !—-swear 




THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 211 

me by all manner of manes :—I’ll swear any thing— 
give me dhe book !’ 

66 ‘ Nonsense !’ I replied, 6 don’t let another word 
be said about such a trifle .’ But, the more averse I 
appeared to be to administer the oath, the more cla¬ 
morous was Tim for the book ; expatiating warmly 
on his own honour, and on the villany of his ac¬ 
cuser. 

“ At length, having expressed my desire that he 
should fall back among his companions, I said to the 
priest, ‘ Father Croley, lam sorry you should have 
lost your penknife, which must be a great inconveni¬ 
ence to you, particularly as you live so remote from 
any town or village ; but if you will do me the fa¬ 
vour to accept of mine, it is heartily at your ser¬ 
vice. ’ 

“With this I pulled out my knife, which was a 
very handsome one, and presented it to the priest, 
who received the gift most thankfully.—It was to this, 
indeed, that much of my success in persuading the 
people to retire peaceably to their homes, was owing ; 
for the reverend Father immediately bawled out, 
‘Boys ! there’s to be no fight to-day, at all ! His ho- 
nur says it isn’t daycint; and so you must all go home 
in a paiceable manner, like good Christians, and be 
glad ye have got no bones broke.’ 

“Disappointment showing itself on the countenan¬ 
ces of several of the men on both sides, I backed Fa¬ 
ther Croley’s mandate, by leaving three guineas to treat 
them all round with a glass of whiskey a-piece, on 
condition that the Father saw them all shake hands 
with each other before they left the ground.—This ar¬ 
rangement of their differences having been agreed to 


212 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


by all parties, I took my departure amidst blessings 
and huzzas that made the welkin ring !* 

* In corroboration of the above account of the almost causeless 
feuds which frequently agitate the peasantry of Ireland, and of the 
apparent harmony with which, notwithstanding, they perform their 
religious duties, we here give an extract from the report of a trial 
of some of these disturbers of the peace in tire counties of Tippe¬ 
rary and Limerick, before a special commission at Clonmel, in the 
year 1811. 

James Slattery examined 

Question by the Chief Baron. “ What is the cause of quarrel be¬ 
tween these two parties, the Shanavests and Car avals ?” — A. “I 
do not know /” 

Q. “ What is the true reason ?”— A. “ 1 cannot tell!” 

Q . “ So then, according to your account, I am to understand 
that each party attacks the other by way of defence ?”— A. “ By the 
powers ! and that’s just it.” 

Question by a Juror. “ Were the men who were concerned in 
the affray of the month of August* the same that were concerned 
at the races of Coolmoyne ?”■— A. ‘‘Indeed you may say that:— 
they were the very same* sure enough.” 

Q. “ Do you know a man of the name of Pauddeen Car ?”— A, 
“ And sure I do. He is my own uncle.” 

Q. “ Was not he the principal ringleader and commander of the 
army of Shanavests — A. “Why, sure, he is a poor ould man* 
and not able to take the command.” 

Question by Lord Norbury. “Now, tell the truth:—What was 
the first cause of quarrel?”— A. “Why, plase your Lordship, 
wasn’t it that same foolish dispute about the May-poles ?” 

Question by the Chief Baron. “Which is the oldest party?”— 
A. “ The ouldest party !—Why, sure, 1 ’d say they were exactly of 
the same age; but that the Caravats were going on two years be¬ 
fore the Shanavests stirred.” 

Q. “ Why were they called Caravats?”— A. “Sure, they were 
called that same, because one Hanly was hanged:—and he was 
parsecuted (prosecuted,) by the Shanavests; and Pauddeen Car 
said, ‘as how he would not lave the place of execution, till he 
saw the Caravat (cravat) round the fellow’s neck;’ and so from 
that time, they were called Caravats 


213 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 

When I had got on about a quarter of a mile, and 
was proceeding slowly up an eminence, talking with 
my servant of the agreeable termination of hostilities 

Question by Lord Nor bury. “For what offence was Hanly hang¬ 
ed ?”— A. “ Sure and it’s yerself as ought to know better nor me ; 
3 twas yer Lordship hanged him.” 

Q. “ Answer me to the point, Sir!—On your oath, Sir, what was 
his offence ?”— A. “ The poor fellow was hanged, God rest his 
sowl, for burning the house of a man who had taken land over his 
neighbour’s head.” 

Q. “Then, this Hanly was the leader of the Caravats?”— Jl. 
“ Before he was hanged, his party was called the Moyle Hangers.” 

Q. “And who was the leader of the Shanavests ?”— A. “The 
Shanavests were called Pauddeen Car’s party.” 

Q. “ Why were they called Shanavests ?”■— A. “ They were call¬ 
ed that same, because they wore Ould Waistcoats /” 

Nicholas Saxton , another witness, gave nearly the same evidence 
as Slattery, respecting the origin and history of the parties of Ca¬ 
ravats and Shanavests ; he likewise proved, that all those connect¬ 
ed with these illegal associations, had no other object in taking up 
arms, than to defend themselves against the attacks of each other ! 

The Rev. John Ryan, Parish Priest of Feathard, examined. 

Q. “IIow long have you been parish priest of Feathard?”— A. 
“ Eight years last October,” 

Q. “ Are you acquainted with all your parishioners ?”— A . 
“ Yes.” 

Q. “ Do you recollect the races of Coolmoyne, last September ?” 
— A. “ 1 do.—I was at the* races on the day of the fight, and heard 
a shot fired in the direction the Shanavests were.” 

On his cross-examination by the Solicitor-General, he further de¬ 
posed, that at the fair he saw some of the Shanavests strike the 
Caravats. 

Question by the Chief Baron. “ Is it notorious in the parish, who 
are Shanavests and who are Caravats ?”— A. <‘It is.” 

Q. “ From a gentleman of your appearance and manners, l 
should wish to be informed what is the real cause of this quarrel ?' a 
—A. “ I never could find out the real cause!” 

Question by Lord Norbury. “ Do the feuds of these insurgents 


214 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


among these poor people, I heard a voice from behind, 
calling loudly, ‘ Stop one moment, yer honur! I wants 
to spake one word to ye, in private, if yer honur ’ll 
grant me the permission.’ 

“ We turned our horses’ heads, and perceived the 
old man, before spoken of, running towards us with 
all his might. I immediately supposed that he had 
come to inform me of the commencement of the fray, 
notwithstanding my exertions to prevent it. We stood 
still until he came up with us, which he soon did, 
but much out of breath ; and, when he had a little 
recovered, I eagerly asked him if the people had re¬ 
newed their quarrel ? 

“ ‘No, yer honur, by no manner of manes,’ an¬ 
swered the man ; i they ’re all as happy as frindship 
and a dhrop of good whiskey can make them 1’ 

u ( I am glad to hear that,’ said I ; 4 but why did 
you not stay among them, to have some likewise ?’ 

“ ‘ I humbly thank yer honur,’ he replied, ‘I did 
that same :—I drank long life to yer honur in a nag- 
gin, before I came away.’ 

u 6 What is your business then ?’ I inquired. 

i( ( If yer honur ’ll be plased to spake a quiet word 

prevent their attending Divine Service ?”— A. “No, my Lord, God 
forbid ! Both Shanavests and Caravats attend Divine Sarvice re¬ 
gularly and indiscriminately.” 

Q. “ Do they ever behave disorderly during Divine Service ?”— 
A. “Never, my Lord? they behave daycent, like brother and sis¬ 
ter, during the sarvice ; but they’re like cat and dog out of it.” 

Q. “You mean out of the chapel?”— A. “Yes, my Lord; 1 
mean that same.” 

Q. “ Do you consider those feuds to be confined to the lower 
orders f ”—r-A. “ 1 think they are ; I am not sure whether any re¬ 
spectable parishioner has joined them.” 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 215 

to me,’ ho answered, ‘I’ll tell ye that same, with¬ 
out more ado.’ 

u Wondering what could be his errand, I told my 
servant to ride forward ; and he was no sooner out 
of hearing, than the old fellow thus began:— 

“ ‘ Begging yer honur’s pardon, what a Judy yer 
honur made of yerself; for to go and give your beauti¬ 
ful ornament to that desaiving raskill, Father Croley !’ 

“ ‘ Pooh ! pooh ! you silly man P said I, ‘is that 
all you have to talk with me about?—I was happy in 
having it in my power to prevent him from feeling 
the loss of his own.’ 

“‘By the holy!’ returned the old man, ‘and 
dhat is dhe very thing dhat I blame ye for : howsorm 
ever, I couldn’t bear to see yer honur so cru’lly de- 
saived ; and so 1 5 ve come after ye to give ye his! 9 

“ ‘ His what?’ I inquired. 

“ ‘ Why, the tyrant’s pinknife , to be sure : I*vc 
got it safe in my breeches ’ pocket ,—and, by the 
same token, there it is, yer honur.—I’d sooner see 
the alouragh to the divil, than give him any satisfac¬ 
tion about his tool !’—Saying this, he thrust his fore¬ 
finger and thumb into a thing like a pocket in his 
breeches, and put the priest’s knife into my hand! 

“ Petrified with amazement at this singular eclair - 
cissement, I looked at him for some moments ; at 
length, the ludicrous mixture of his character burst 
upon me ; and I could not help laughing at his assur¬ 
ance in so stoutly denying the theft a few minutes be¬ 
fore, and his odd manner of acknowledging it now. 

“ The fact was, that this aged man’s mind, though 
naturally imbued with a proper sense of justice, had 
become so corrupted by the universal oppression 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


216 

which reigned throughout the country, that all sense 
of right and wrong had become blunted. It had been 
roused to action upon the present occasion, by a slight 
impulse of gratitude ; by private pique towards his 
priest;—and by the desire of restoring to me some 
equivalent for what I had given away. 

“I remonstrated with him on the iniquity of his 
conduct towards the reverend Father, saying, ‘ Now, 
Tim, how could you persist in telling such an untruth ? 
—Suppose I had given you the book.’ 

“ 6 Oh master, then,’ replied Tim, ‘ I won’t suppose 
no such thing :—don’t we all know how timorous ye 
are to give the oath ?’ 

“ ‘ But, suppose I had at last,’ continued I, ‘ what 
a pretty situation you would have been in !—what 
could you have done ?—You surely would not have 
forsworn yourself?’ 

“‘ By the hokey, then, master dear,’ answered 
Tim, ‘I’d have turned it all off with a laugh at the 
praist, and gived him his durty bit of iron back again. 
—For sure, why did I meddle with the thing at all at 
all ? wasn’t it at Neddy Blake’s that I picked it up 
one day, when the Father was lying on the bench as 
drunk as a pig, and couldn’t tell his knife from a 
scythe ?—and wasn’t my only raison for taking it, to 
prove that villain Jack Morgan to be nothing but a 
pumping informer, for he was the only one in the 
place, that wasn’t blind drunk, that could ha’ seen me.’ 

“ ‘Well, Tim,’ said I, ‘you will excuse me from 
' taking the priest’s knife, which I hope you will find 
means to restore to him as soon as possible.’ 

“ ‘ And won’t ye take it, yersilf, master ?’ returned 
Tim. 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 217 

“‘ Certainly not, Tim,’ replied I : ‘you must re¬ 
turn it to the owner, without delay. 7 

“ ‘Oh thunder and ’ounds, master !’ exclaimed the 
old man ; ‘ hasn’t he one from yersilf, worth a bushel 
of such rubbitch as dhis ?—With yer honur’s lave, I’d 
like to keep it myself, any how, till I send Jack Mor¬ 
gan to hell without his ears—the spalpeen informer 
that he is !’ 

“ Seeing that poor Tim was too old a sinner to ad¬ 
mit of the least hope of reformation, I desired him to 
spare Morgan’s ears; gave him half a crown for his 
honesty , and rode on. 

“ As I proceeded, I could not help exclaiming, 
‘Alas! unhappy Ireland, how art thou sunk in the 
scale of nations ! The incubus of wretchedness—that 
monster begotten by tyranny upon superstition,— 
which sits so heavily upon thy lovely bosom, is the 
cause of too many instances of depravity similar to 
that which I have now witnessed. Thy children have 
lost the spirit, the courage, and the honour of their 
forefathers, and, like the Oriental slave, they have 
taken refuge from the hand of oppression in the intri¬ 
cate mazes of cunning, and in the dismal caverns of 
knavery and violence.—But will this degradation last 
for ever ? Surely not. The heroic ardour of the ancient 
Gael will reanimate the drooping spirits of their sons, 
to deeds of greatness !—then, sweet Erin ! clothed in 
thy emerald verdure, thou wilt reign as thou wert 
wont, the happy and the smiling Queen of the West¬ 
ern Seas !’ ” 

vol. I, t 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


2 18 


XXI. 

THE IRISH PEASANTRY AND THEIR 

PASTORS. 

(continued.) 

The foregoing conversation being renewed some* 
time after, the same gentleman, in obedience to the 
wish of several members, who expressed an earnest 
desire to know more of the spirit and character of his 
countrymen, related several other curious anecdotes ; 
some of which are as follow :— 

THE ADULTEROUS PRIEST. 

“You must know, gentlemen !” said he, “that 
though there is not, perhaps, in any country, a more 
decorous, moral, and virtuous priesthood, generally 
speaking, than in Ireland, some of them have, of 
course, been suffered to fall into the snares of tempta¬ 
tion. When such a misfortune occurs, however, the 
brethren, one and all, instead of withdrawing from 
the transgressor, (or his being publicly punished by 
his superiors,) seem to shut their eyes and ears against 
the accusation, let it be ever so glaring or loud. This, 
no doubt, proceeds, in some degree, from the praise¬ 
worthy sentiment that they are all partakers in the 
shame of their brother ; and from a rooted determina¬ 
tion to prevent their own laity, and the members of 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 219 

the Protestant church, from pointing the finger of scorn 
at any individual delinquent; thinking that if the 
scandal be left to itself, it will soon blow over : and I 
have no doubt, that this delicacy tends greatly to the 
preservation of purity among the Catholic priesthood 
of Ireland. 

“ A remarkable instance of this occurred some time 
ago, in the county of Cork :— A sawyer, who worked 
for a gentleman, was directed to attend early one 
morning to prepare timber for the carpenter ; but he 
did not make his appearance till a late hour. His em¬ 
ployer asked him wherefore he had delayed, knowing 
how much he was wanted ; but the poor fellow seemed 
labouring under the effect of great sorrow and agita¬ 
tion ; and his brother, who was also his comrade at 
the sawpit, replied, ‘Plase your honur, Maurice is 
hardly able to spake ! and we would not have come 
to-day, at all at all, but to make a great complaint and 
woful lamentation to yer honur ; for, as to work, that’s 
out of the question !’ 

“ 6 What’s the matter ?’ said the gentleman ; 6 Mau¬ 
rice seems very weak—lead him to the servants’-hall, 
where he shall have something to recruit his spirits; 
and I will be with you immediately.’ 

“ Having ordered some refreshment for the poor 
fellow, the gentleman soon afterwards went to hear 
the ‘ complaint and woful lamentation which he did 
from his brother, as follows:— 

“‘Plase your honur,’ said he, ‘Maurice and my¬ 
self got up by cock-crow this morning, to come down 
here, according to orders ; but as it was rather early 
when we corned out of the cabin, we laid our plan to 
go over to the other side of the road into a little twig 


^20 THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 

yard, to watch what Julian, Maurice’s wife, would do ; 
—because d’ye see, plase yer honur, Maurice and my¬ 
self have both of us suspected her, for some time, to 
be bad !’— 

“ ‘ Oh ! oh ! oh !—murder ! murder !’ sighed and 
exclaimed poor Maurice ; ‘ that iver I should live to 
see the day !’— 

“ ( Well, and as I was a saying, plase your honur, 
there we stationed ourselves amongst the twigs, and 
by the time that Julian thought we were far enough 
off, didn’t the cabin-door open? and Julian looked 
about her;—and didn’t she make off to the southward 
and cross the river ? and the divil a sight we lost of 
her, till we dogged her into the house she was bound 
for. And when we reached that same,, as good luck 
would have it, by J—s she forgot to fasten the door 
inside, and in we bowled ; and blow me to the divil! 
master, if we didn’t catch her in bed with Father 
Murtogh himself, and no hody else, saving your 
honur’s favour.’ 

“ 4 Och ! och ! och !—Oehone ! ochone ! my heart 
is sinking in the inside of me/ ejaculated poor Mau¬ 
rice ; 4 1 am a dead man for the rest of my life ;—I 
niver will recover this blow !’ 

“ ‘ Is this possible ?’ said the gentleman. 

“ ‘Oh ! master, it is true as the sun/' said the bro¬ 
ther ; ‘would I tell yer honur a lie? and of the 
praist, too !—0 farragh !—it is far from me, that same 
thing;—and what are we to do, master?’ 

“ ‘I understand/ answered the gentleman, ‘that 
the bishop will be in this country shortly, on his visit¬ 
ation : your best way is to tell all the particulars to 


221 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 

my steward ; let him put the case on paper, and you 
can hand it to the bishop as he rides along.’ 

“‘Long life to your honur! that same shall be 
done,’ said both the men: and they departed for that 
purpose. 

“ The statement was prepared ; the bishop and 
a party of his clergy did arrive in the country ; and 
in about an hour after they had passed the gentleman’s 
house, Maurice and his brother Jack arrived with the 
account of their expedition. 

“ ‘Well, Maurice,’ inquired the gentleman, ‘have 
you handed your complaint to the bishop ?’ 

“ ‘ I have, master, sure enough,’ replied Maurice, 
‘ and I ’ll tell you all straight forward as it happen¬ 
ed.—Well, as I was saying, didn’t myself and Jack 
stand upon the bank watching his lordship’s coming ; 
and when I stood before him and made my reverence, 
didn’t I give him the paper?—and blood and death ! 
who should be riding cheek by jowl by the side of 
him, but Father Murtogh, his own self! 

“ ‘ Well, his lordship bids his vycar take his horse’s 
bridle, and out with his spectildes, and he reads my 
paper: and who did he show it to but to Murtogh?— 
and they fell whispering and looking at one another. 
And when his lordship had finished it, he stopped 
and called out, ‘ Where is the man who handed me 
this petition ?’ 

“ ‘ With that I corned for’ard, forenent him, and 
said, making my reverence, ‘ I’m the boy, my Lord, 
that gived you that paper.’—Whereupon he looked as 
if he would burn me up with the fire from his red 
nose, and he began at me like the very ould one him¬ 
self. 


222 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“ ‘ My friend, you are very badly advised/ said 
lie, ‘ but that, I see clearly by your petition. This 
paper was drawn up by some enemy of the Christian 
Church,—he was no holy Roman Catholic :’—and 
then he looks at me as if his eyes would make a hole 
through my carcass, and he says, ‘ Confess now this 
moment of time, ye reprobate!—was it a Roman 
Catholic who wrote this petition?’ 

“ ‘No, my Lord,’ says I.—‘Who was it?* says 
he.—-‘ Would you have me turn informer, my Lord?* 
says I.—‘ I ’ll make you leave off your wickedness,* 
says he; ‘you are a sinful man; you seek to bring 
scandal on our holy faith !—the accusation against 
your priest is impossible /’ 

“ ‘ I *11 be d—d, master, if he didn’t, tell me to my 
very face, that it was impossible !—after Jack and my¬ 
self catching Father Murtogh and Julian in bed toge¬ 
ther ! and by the virtue of the cross ! he gave me 
such a tearing, that any one to hear, must think I had 
been found guilty of the five—ay, by the powers! of 
all the seven cardinal sins ;—but h—11 to the word to, 
or about, Father Murtogh, at all at all!’ 

“To conclude, Father Murtogh had several chil¬ 
dren by Julian, who, by the by, had never had any 
by her husband—the chief cause of her infidelity 
whilst her fruitfulness by the reverend Father was re¬ 
puted to be the effect of righteousness!” 

The foregoing anecdote having afforded much 
amusement to the gentlemen to whom it was address¬ 
ed, Mr.-thus continued his account of the pe¬ 

culiarities of his countrymen, whose characters it 
would seem he had studied thoroughly:— 




THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 223 

u I have already, gentlemen,” said he, u given 
you an instance of the difficulty of preserving order 
and good morals among the Irish peasantry, in their 
present oppressed and degraded state, even were they 
under the very best constituted hierarchy.— 

66 1 shall now relate two anecdotes, the first'of 
which shows how the priests are sometimes deceived 
by their flocks, even in the solemn rite of Confession ; 
particularly, when the matter to be confessed is a de¬ 
predation on the property of any Protestant who may 
have injured them:—and the second will illustrate 
that community of interest which exists between 
priest and people, and which compels the former, at 
the risk of giving mortal offence to the powers that 
be, to screen the petty offender’s body from the arm 
of the law,—at the same time that he deals as gently 
with his immortal part, as the circumstances of the 
case will permit. I must premise, however, that very 
many of the irregularities of these poor people are to 
be ascribed to the denial of justice to them by their 
superiors, particularly the magistracy; the conse¬ 
quence of which is, that they are driven to the neces¬ 
sity of expedients, which wear the semblance of a 
gratification of the passion of revenge; though, in 
point of fact, they are only acting on the natural prin¬ 
ciple of the law of retaliation; their oppressors be¬ 
ing, in almost every case, the first transgressors of 
the law of the land. 

THE PRIEST AND THE PIGS. 

“ One day, during my residence in the South of 
Ireland, I went to inspect a nursery of young trees 
by the side of the avenue which leads up to my 


22 4 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


house. Several labourers were at work upon it; and 
as I approached them, screened by the bushes, I over¬ 
heard the following dialogue:— 

“ ‘Well, blood and ’ounds, boys, did you hear of 
Father Joe and Pat Horogan, about the pigs ?’ 

‘“No, Jack,’ they all vociferated; ‘let us have it. ‘ 

“ ‘Why, you know Horogan stole Denny’s pig ?’ 
said Jack. 

“ ‘ Oh yes !’ they all exclaimed, ‘ we know that.' 

“ ‘Well, then d’ye see,’ continued their informant, 
‘ when he was at confession he told this to Father Joe, 
who ordered him to behave himself or it would be 
worse for him—and to restore the pig that night.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, by the hokey ! plase your Reverence,’ said 
Pat, ‘ that’s beyond the power of me : the pig is dead 
and gone, and eaten long enough ago.’ 

“ ‘ Pat, you are a bad member !’ said Father Joe ;— 
'‘what was the worth of the pig?’ 

“ ‘ Ten shilling, plase yer Reverence,’ said Pat:— 
‘ now the pig, as we all know, boys, was cheap at forty 
shilling, every hap’orth of it.’ 

“ ‘Well,’ says the Father, ‘ you must pay the man !* 

“‘Thunder and ’ounds ! plase your Reverence,’ 
says Pat, ‘ is it to give that Sassanac any thing ?—By 
the powers ! it is he that robbed myself! The tithe 
proctor rapparee, last harvest, chated me of three pound 
and more, and banished my brother, Mick Horogan, 
to England, by an extortion of a tithe note, that was 
paid before ; and poor Micky forgot to take it up out 
of the villain’s hands, as your Reverence knows better 
than I can tell you.’ 

“ ‘ That is true, Patrick,’ said Father Joe ; ‘ but our 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 225 

holy religion does not allow of stealing the goods of 
another : it is against the commandments of God.’ 

44 4 But, thunder and death !’ says Pat, 4 is there two 
kinds of commandments,—one for these Cromwellian 
robbers ; and another for us, poor plundered Irish era- 
turs?’ 

44 4 No,’ said the priest, 4 but though these Protest¬ 
ants pay no obedience to the word of God, because 
they have the foreign laws at their side—that does not 
justify us to dispense with them.’ 

44 4 Oh murder !’ said Pat, 4 then I am to have no 
revenge at all at all ?—Well, there’s no help for it ! 
Plase your Reverence, here is the ten shilling for you.’ 

44 4 Very good,’ says Father Joe : 4 now, my dear 
child, go home, and pray to God to give you strength 
to resist the Divil and all his works :—and the holy 
Vargin be with you on your way !’ 

44 4 Well, boys, Pat took his leave ; but presently re¬ 
turned, and says to Father Joe, 4 Plase your Rever¬ 
ence, that Sassanae murderer has another pig of the 
same litter :— I ’ll take her at the same money.’ 

44 4 Oh no, Pat,’ said the Father, 4 1 ’ll have nothing 
to do with it in that line . ’— 

44 Here the whole party set up a loud laugh, and Jack 
thus continued :— 4 Well now, boys, ye’ll be right glad 
to hear the end of it;—Pat set off with himself; and 
by the holy ! he took off the other pig that same night, 
and gived Father Joe the other ten shilling:—so, ye 
see, Joe has twenty shilling, and Pat Horogan has his 
three pound hack. ’— 

44 Peals of laughter now burst from the party, all of 
whom loudly applauded Pat’s ingenuity in doing him¬ 
self justice, and in tricking his confessor.”— 


226 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


A question here arising as to the honesty of Father 
Joe, and the apparent collusion between him and Ho- 
rogan in stealing the second pig, the narrator thus ex¬ 
plained :— 

“ We must not take it for granted, gentlemen,” said 
he, “ that the expression alleged to have been used by 
the priest, 6 1 ’ll have nothing to do with it in that line? 
is literally correct. I have related the dialogue as I 
heard it spoken ; and I have no doubt that these words 
were attributed to him by way of joke, and to raise a 
laugh at his expense. As to the deodands ,—that Father 
Joe restored the exact sum to the owner of the pigs, 
which he received from Horogan, I was assured of by 
Denny himself; and that the reverend Father believ¬ 
ed twenty shillings to be the full value of the two ani¬ 
mals, is ascertain.—The relation, as delivered by Jack 
to his fellows, merely proves that the Irish Catholics 
do not hold their priesthood exempt from avarice and 
divers other frailties incident to human nature.” 


“ I will now relate an instance of finesse or pious 
fraud, on the part of a Catholic priest; which, I have 
no doubt, you will allow to be creditable both to his 
head and heart.” 

CURSING FROM THE ALTAR ! 

“At a confessional station, in an Irish farm house 
of the better sort, the spiritual ceremonies being all 
disposed of, the priest and the communicants sat down, 
on a footing of perfect equality, to an abundant dinner ; 
which being concluded, they commenced paying their 
respects to the whiskey, of which they poured out 
plentiful libations. 



2 27 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 

l ' Whilst they were thus amusing themselves, the 
servant of a neighbouring Protestantgentleman brought 
to the priest a note from his master, written in these 
words :— 

“ ‘ Reverend Sir, 

u ‘ This morning I discovered that an ash-tree, well 
worth twenty guineas , had been cut down, last night, 
or the night before, off my land here ; you will greatly 
oblige me by cursing in the most dreadful manner , 
from the altar, next Sunday, the miscreant, or mis¬ 
creants, guilty of this horrible crime. 

“ ‘ You will let me know when you are drawing your 
turf, that I may send help. 

Your’s, &c. 

E. Smith/ 

“The priest put on his spectacles, read the note 
twice or thrice, and said, ‘My boy, give my hearty 
commendations to your worthy master—tell him how 
I was engaged here in my offices—or that I would not 
send a verbal message ; and, do you hear, hoy, telf 
your master that I will pay every attention to his let¬ 
ter—that I will.—Mr. Leary,’ (to the host,) ‘give 
Mr. Smith’s boy a glass of punch, if you plase.—And, 
Mr. Leary, (I beg pardon for being so bold in your 
house,) I shall propose a good health to Mr. Smith— 
upon my word, he is a worthy gentleman.—Here is 
towards Mr. Smith’s good health !’ {drinking.) 
6 Drink to your master’s health, my hoy.’ The glass 
being quaffed, the priest continued—‘ Here, my child, 
take another glass to your master’s health,’—which 
of course he did. 


22 S 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


‘♦The servant having taken his departure, the priest 
pulled Mr. Smith’s letter out of his pocket, and read 
it pro bono publico , laughing heartily, and saying, 
‘Upon my word, miracles have not ceased yet. I am 
sure I know every tree on Mount Pleasant, and I ne¬ 
ver heard of one of them being worth five shillings !’ 

“‘And what will you' do, Father Mulligan?’ said 
the farmer ; ‘ will you curse the boy that took away 
the tree ?’ 

“‘Upon my word,’ replied the priest, ‘ I don’t like 
to do such a thing; unless the thief becomes stubborn 
and hardened, and that too long time passes before I 
hear of it in confession.’ 

“ ‘ Dar diet /’ said the farmer, ‘ I wouldn’t gratify 
the Sassanac thief by any such thing : sure it’s a good 
deed to cut down his trees, and himself too, if need 
he, for he’s a great oppressor, and be d—d to his 
Cromwellian sowl !’ 

“This sentiment, which met with general concur¬ 
rence, the priest could not do otherwise than endea¬ 
vour to repress; but his arguments made very little im¬ 
pression upon his audience, who were far from being 
pleased that Smith’s wish was to be complied with. 

“When the controversy had somewhat subsided, a 
poor beggar-man presented himself at the open win¬ 
dow, and in piteous accent begged for alms, ‘ in the 
name, and for the tender mercy of God !’— 

“ This petition being repeated two or three times, 
the priest said, ‘ Go away from that ;—there is no¬ 
thing for you—go!—be on the march immediately!’— 

“ One of the farmers now seeing that this was a 
good opportunity for playing off a sarcasm on the 
priest, thus addressed the beggar-man : ‘ 0 you fool. 


229 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 

what made you make mention of the name of God ?— 
why did not you say you came from Ned Smith, and 
you would get a couple of glasses of punch, any how.’— 
The priest tvas ashamed, and gave the poor man a few 
pence ; at the same time recommending him to the 
care of the host. 

“ At length Sunday came, which was the time that 
Father Mulligan was to perform his promise to Mr. 
Smith ; and after the sermon he thus delivered him¬ 
self : ‘Good Christians, I am credibly informed that 
an ash tree of the value of twenty guineas was cut 
down, last Tuesday or Wednesday night, on the land 
of Edward Smith, Esquire:—now, my curse, and the 
eurse of God, light upon the man who cut down the 
said tree of the value of twenty guineas , on the es¬ 
tate of the said Mr. Smith, unless he confesses the 
same ; when he will be farther admonished.’— 

“ When the words of this curse came to be com¬ 
mented on, it was allowed to be the neatest and cle*- 
verest thing ever heard of in the parish.”* 

* Whilst oh the subject of Catholic cursing 1 , it may not be amiss 
to insert here a couple of Presbyterian effusions of the same kind. 

A Scottish clergyman, named Linning, thus cursed Louis XIY. 
of France, in his prayers : 

« Lord curse him , confound him , and damn him; distress him and 
deride him as thou didst Pharaoh , Senacherib , and our late King 
Janies , and his father Charles /” 

Another of these gentry, a young fellow named Fraser, thus 
blasphemously pronounced the blessing after a sermon which he 
preached at Jedburgh: 

4t The curse of the Lord Jesus Christ , and of God the Father , and 
of the Holy Ghost, be upon all those that hear the word and profit 
<not by it /” 


VOL. I. 


U 


230 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


Among other very curious and entertaining anec¬ 
dotes of the Irish priesthood, the following produced 
such convulsive roars of laughter, by the inimitable 
manner in which the gentleman above alluded to re¬ 
lated it, that the writer cannot do better than conclude 
this article by its insertion from his note-book :— 

A GENUINE CATHOLIC SERMON. 

“About sixty years ago,” said he, “ when the cele¬ 
bration of mass subjected the priest to the dreadful 
horrors of a premunire, a Rev. Mr. Lynch, Catholic 

pastor of the parish of-, in the county of Galway, 

preached a sermon to his flock, (who were pent up in 
an old malt-house,) which for its singularity is worthy 
of relation, as well as on account of the notice taken 
of it by the people then in power. 

“ He took his text from the book of Tobit, wherein 
he said was written,— 

* Love me, love my dog.*—- 

“ He descanted for some time on the loveliness oi 
alms-giving—universal charity and benevolence—and 
dwelt on the superior manner in which these pre-emL 
nent virtues are practised by the professors of the Holy 
Roman Catholic faith. Contrasting which, with that 
professed by other sects, he thus expressed himself:_ 

“ ‘ My brethren—the three churches, the Catholic, 
the Presbyterian, and the Protestant, may be compared 
to the three cheeses /—the mullahone cheese-—the but¬ 
termilk cheese—and the cream cheese. 

“‘Take the mullahone cheese and put it before 
the fire ; and it will drop a little drop of grace, but nc* 
glory :—that is the Presbyterian church. 



THE IRISH PEASANTRY) &C. 231 

“ ‘ Take the buttermilk cheese and hould it before 
the fire ; and it will spit and fizz—and spit; but no 
drop—no drop :—there is neither grace nor glory 
there !—That is the Sassanac Protestant church. 

“ ‘Now, good Christians, take the cream cheese and 
hould it before the fire :—you’ll see how it will drop, 
drop, drop,—oh, so rich and so sweet!—beautiful to 
look upon, delightful to the taste, refreshing to the 
spirit! Oh! there is the grace—there is the glory !— 
that is the holy Roman Catholic church, against which 
the gates of hell cannot prevail. 

“ ‘My children, these Protestants pretend to say, 
that it is forbidden to worship graven images, for 
which they have a commandment; and they say we 
split their tenth commandment in two halves, because 
we leave out the one against the images !— 

“‘Now I’ll show you plainly what murdhering 
thieves these Protestants are. In the first place, have 
they the book in which these commandments were 
written by the finger of God :—sure it is not many 
years since these deserters quitted our ranks. How 
then did they get the book ?—-they stole it, I suppose. 
If so, who would believe a thief?—Oh, no ; the book 
was always in the holy keeping of St. Peter, and giv¬ 
en by him into the hand of his Holiness the Pope:— 
therefore, there can be no mistake—it is all right as in 
oilr books. 

“ ‘ Again, dear Christians, attend to these Protest¬ 
ants’ words. ‘Don’t worship graven images,’ they 
say :—but when was this commandment of the Pro¬ 
testants given ?—In the time of Moses ? Oh, holy Fa¬ 
ther! come down and judge this!—Why there was not 



232 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON* 


an engraver for two thousand years after Moses was 
dead and berried in the bottom of the red say. 

444 Again, these Protestants say that 4 God com¬ 
manded not to make the likeness of any thing in Heav¬ 
en above —the Lord save us !—How was it possible 
for any man to know any thing of Heaven above, that 
lie could take off the likeness of any thing there ?— 
would the Great God make such a law as that ?— 

44 4 Again,— 4 nor of any thing in the water under 
the earth. ? —These Englishmen,—these Sassanacs, who 
began the rebellion against their holy mother, talk of 
us Irish making blunders and bulls, as they call them ! 
—who ever heard of such a thundering bull as this ?—- 
make the likeness of any thing in the water under the 
earth !—The water under the earth !—I always thought 
the waters lay on the earth :—but these Protestants go 
to hell for likenesses. What water is there under the 
earth but the lake of burning fire ?—How was a holy- 
Roman Catholic to know any thing of that place?— 
God rest the sowls of the faithful !—that he should be 
forbidden to draw a picture out of it ? Is not this to 
make an insignificant crature of the Great God ; to b$ 
making laws against what it was impossible to do?— 
these Protestants.may as well have forged a law against 
flying up to heaven ! 

44 4 But they say that the Papists,—as the villains, 
call the holy Roman Catholics,—make pictures of saints, 
and bow down before them and worship them :—look 
round these walls, my children !—we have no pictures 
here, at all events, the Lord save us ! Here we are, 
celebrating the unspotted sacrifice of the mass, in this 
wretched magazine of malt :—long life to Mr. Blake 
for allowing that same to us ! But, indeed, if ye were 




THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 233 

to be in the Vatican,—the chapel apostolical of his Ho¬ 
liness,—it is there you would see the fine paintings 
and pictures of holy men !—and for what ?—for what* 
but to keep them alive in our memories, and make our 
gratitude the greater, if possible, to those glorious saints 
in Heaven, to whom the fathers of these Englishmen, 

-—these Sassanacs,—were all praying and recommend¬ 
ing their sowls, thirty or forty years ago :—or, say 
three or four hundred years ago :—sure all time is but 
a span in the sight of the Great God ! 

“ ‘But suppose we did bow down to them and pray 
for their good will, and good word : if we had these 
pictures,—more’s the pity that we are not able to 
mount them ;—why not?—What is my text?— 

*Love me, love my dog.* 

Love God, love his saints : 

Love his saints, love his saints’ images.— 

That, I believe, is as plain as that one and one make 
two. 

“ ‘But of all the blasphemies that ever were heard 
of, none of them equals that of these Protestants, when 
they say there is no such place as jmrgatory. —Was 
the like ever heard afore ? 

“ ‘Now, in the first piace, what can any mortals 
upon the face of the earth do without purgatory ?— 
Whereabouts are the poor sowls to go, when they have 
taken their flight from their mass of earthly bodies, 
waiting the judgment? Do the guilty go to the enjoy¬ 
ment of Heaven with the saints and martyrs, for God 
only knows how long ? Or do the righteous go to hell 
amongst the damned ?—the damned, do I say ? How 
can they be condemned before conviction?—no, my 
brethren, they are conducted to purgatory , where 


234 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


they may be purged of the sins of this wicked world; 
made partakers of a glorious resurrection ; and from 
thence be summoned to undergo a fair trial at the last 
day, when this world will be on fire and have an end. 

“ ‘The beautiful order of God’s works is disfigured 
altogether without this place of refreshment and atone¬ 
ment.— 

“ ‘ But what signifies talking and guessing ?—let 
us come to the point. —Ye all remember poor Val 
Lynch, the lame tailor, and my own namesake,—God 
rest his sowl !— he went to that said purgatory. There 
he was snug enough, whilst we were berrying him 
here. Well, Val w r as a jovial sowl; and as he was 
taking his pipe, and playing his tricks, leaning against 
the wooden partition, between purgatory and hell, in 
a fit of laughter, the boards gave way ; and over he 
went, head over heels, into the bottomless pit ! 

(( ‘ It was not long before I had news of his sad con¬ 
dition : and off I went to the Bishop of Elphin to make 
my complaint. The bishop set off to the Archbishop 
of Tuam ; the archbishop dispatched his vycar to his 
Holiness the Pope ; his Holiness wrote to St. Peter ; 
and St. Peter sent an order to the Divil,—the Lord 
save us !—to deliver up Val immediately. And where 
is Val now? Is not he snug in purgatory ?—-that he 
is, upon my vestment ! 

“ ‘ But, these Sassanacs say, after all this , that 
there is no such place as purgatory !—The next time 
any of you hears one of them say so again, I ’ll tell 
you what you ’ll say to him ; and may be that will 
convince him :—-tell him he lies! —that is it—tell him 
he lies 


/ 


THE IRISH PEASANTRY, &C. 235 

“Well, the reverend Father was so proud of his 
Composition, which was very long, and all to the same 
purpose, that he had it printed ! and a copy being laid 
before the Privy Council of Ireland, of that day, that 
sapient and enlightened body answered Father 
Lynch’s arguments in a like style of wisdom ; and 
equally calculated to bring home conviction to the 
minds of their proselytes. — They offered a reward of 
5001. for the apprehension of the preaching delin¬ 
quent !” 


END OP VOL. I. 















M 








-> 1 ' ■ 










■ ■ 









.«■ 


























THE 


CLUBS OF LONDON; 


WITH 

ANECDOTES OF THEIR MEMBERS 
SKETCHES OF CHARACTER, 


AND 


CONVERSATIONS. 


\ / 


L{/$ .,/,/■ 




IN TWO VOLUMES. 


VOL. II. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

CAREY, LEA, & CAREY—CHESNUT STREET 

SOLD IN NEW YORK BY G. & C. CARVILL. 


1828. 











CLUBS OF LONDON. 


THE BEEF-STEAK, CLyg,.. 

Who has not heard of the Sublime Society of the 
Beef-Steaks ? Of this Club, British in heart, character, 
and humour, a true conservatory of our national good¬ 
nature and mirth, I never met with an authentic ac¬ 
count. Some antiquarians have confounded its ancient 
history with the Beef-Steaks Club mentioned in the 
Spectator, founded, it was said, by Tom Estcourt, the 
player, and of which Peg Woffington was the president. 
Nor let it be mistaken, as it sometimes is, for the 
pseudo-club of modern origin, that has assumed its 
name. The real Beef-Steaks has nothing new about it. 
It has enjoyed, through a long chain of tradition, a cor¬ 
porate life, that never dies. The Sublime Society has 
its pedigree, its ancestry, its title-deeds. The gridiron 
of 1735, standing out in proud relief from the ceiling of 
its refectory, is, to this fraternity, what the Clarencieux, 
the rouge-dragons of Collins and Edmondson, are to 
the heraldic pride of our aristocracy. It is the real 
gridiron, on which its first steak was broiled. That 
eloquent emblem is engraved on the hearts and on the 








4 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


buttons of every member, with the no less eloquent 
motto that encircles it, Beef and Liberty. 

As every thing in this society breathes a spirit of an¬ 
tiquity, so every thing promises long duration. Its 
founders, in the provident spirit of wise legislators, 
infused into it a vitality that has preserved it through 
the giddy revolutions of taste, and the petulant caprices 
of fashion. Though composed of fleeting materials, its 
capital fund of humour, wit, and social glee, has been 
locked up, like property in mortmain. Fashions have 
passed away, but not the fashion of the Beaf-Steaks, 
which remains unsoiled and unchanged in the glossy 
freshness of its primeval character. 

Do not, I beseech you, profane this venerable insti¬ 
tution, by imagining a collection of greasy citizens 
devouring beef-steaks, whom common voracity draws 
together, and common satiety will disperse. On that 
despicable tenure, the flies of the shambles would be a 
Beef-Steak Club. But the princes, the nobles, the wits 
of the land, seated at a plenteous but frugal board, 
and in equal brotherhood, keeping alive the old, in- 
bred good-nature of the better classes of the English 
people. Beef is, indeed, the grosser ligament of the 
union, its outward and tangible sign. But an ethereal 
spirit, an intellectual sympathy is there, to draw and 
cement kindred hearts to each other. It is the car¬ 
nival of the soul; its unfettered commerce, not in ver¬ 
bose tortuous mazes of disquisition, but in all sorts of 
gladness, extracted from all sorts of things; a voyage 
of the spirits bound no where, with liberty to touch 
every where, and bringing home from every point of 
the compass, an unperishable cargo of innocuous satire, 
and heart-stirring hilarities—undisturbed by one mo- 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


5 


ment’s spleen, or acerbity, or wounded self-love. It is 

“ The mirth which after no repenting draws 

the mirth which goes home with you to your pillow, 
startles your wife in the watches of the night, with 
your involuntary laugh, as you are musing over the 
whim and fancy of the evening, and even endangers 
your cup of tea the next morning by the agitation of 
your fibres. 

He who has passed a day at the Beaf-Steaks, and 
has not felt this sensation, may indeed “ go in the cata¬ 
logue” for a man; but, without calling for any more 
evidence, I would pronounce him anti-social in his 
composition. Poor old Johnson, many years the father 
of the Society, was so frequently visited with these re¬ 
miniscences, that fylrs. Johnson began to throw out hints 
for a separate couch, till habit had reconciled her to the 
occasional interruptions of her slumbers. In short, the 
fun of Ben Jonson’s Club, at the Mermaid, in Cornhill, 
as it is recorded by Beaumont, in his epistle to honest 
Ben, seems not to have surpassed that of the Beef- 
Steaks in degree and quality. 

-What things have we seen 

Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been 
So nimble and so full of subtle flame, 

As if that every one from whence they came 
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 

And had resolved to live a fool the rest 

Of his dull life; then, where there hath been thrown 

/ 

Wit able enough to justify the town 

For three days past; wit that might warrant be 

For the whole city to talk foolishly. 

Nor is the history of the Beef-Steaks less remarkable 
than its spirit and character. Henry Rich was the 
1 * 








6 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


founder. A word or two of this same Rich. He had 
the glory of first introducing Harlequin on our stage, 
and he played the part under the assumed name of 
Lun. All theatrical tradition bears testimony to his 
unequalled powers of gesticulation. He was, in one 
word, a finished mime. As his genius lay chiefly in 
pantomime, he devoted his time to the perfecting that 
branch of the drama, first at the little theatre in Lin¬ 
coln’s Inn, afterwards at Covent Garden, of which he 
became the manager. In the character of Harlequin, 
his signs and gestures are said to have been as eloquent 
as words. Garrick, who attempted, after Rich’s death, 
the Irish experiment of a speaking pantomime, thus 
alludes to Rich in a prologue:— 

When Lun appeared, with matchless art and whim. 

He gave the power of speech to every limb. 

Though masked and mute, conveyed his true intent, 

And told in frolic gestures what he meant: 

But now the motley coat, and sword of wood, 

Require a tongue to make them understood. 

It was in the year 1735, that Rich was so indus¬ 
triously employed in this motley species of amusement. 
But he paid particular attention to the promptitude 
and certainty of the mechanism, on which the delight¬ 
ful vicissitude of the whole world of pantomime mainly 
depends; and to be quite assured of the effect, he 
painted on a smaller scale, in pasteboard, the scenes 
and contrivances afterwards exhibited on the stage. 
His ingenious models thus became a microcosm of 
those pleasing spectacles that gave our forefathers that 
honest John Bull-like delight, which the degenerate 
pantomimes of the modern theatre cannot administer. 
But pantomime then had a truer relish of its Italian 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


7 


origin; and, under Rich’s legislation, every thing was 
severely regulated. The clown, or Gracioso, was not 
permitted to do more than was set down for him. Gra¬ 
tuitous grins, superfluous tumbles, extempore kicks, 
were subject to green-room penalties. Even Harlequin 
was restricted from those supplementary capers, those 
appoggiaturas of the feet, which he is too prone to in¬ 
dulge. The poetry of the heels was strictly regulated. 
Hence, in Rich’s time, the perfection of those farces 
which are said to have breathed a festive atmosphere 
all around. 

How I envy the generation who saw those jubilees of 
fun ! That generation has, indeed, long mouldered in 
the grave; hut fancy cannot help picturing the infan¬ 
tine and chubby faces of our ancestors, mantling with 
joy and merriment, and my young masters, in full-drest 
suits, shaking their sides in the general diapason of 
laugh, that ran through the whole play-house, to the no 
small jeopardy of the unnatural load of peruke, which 
the tyranny of fashion inflicted on the heads. 

Whilst Rich was thus employed, his atelier, a small 
room in the theatre, was almost as much frequented as 
Canova’s or Thorwaldsen’s in our days. Every one 
seemed anxious to be admitted, to see him at his in¬ 
teresting labours. Amongst these were several men of 
rank and wit; for Rich’s colloquial oddities were much 
relished. The celebrated lord Peterborough, then 
somewhat advanced in years, Hogarth, Sir James 
Thornhill, &c. &c. were of the number. At these 
visits, he never intermitted his labours, nor his strain 
of facetious remark. Upon one occasion, accident 
having detained the Earl’s coach later than usual, he 
found Rich’s chit-chat so agreeable, that he was quite 


8 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


unconscious that it was two in the afternoon ; when he 
observed the man of pantomine spreading a cloth, then 
coaxing his fire into a clear culinary flame, and pro¬ 
ceeding with great gravity to cook his own beaf-steak 
on his own gridiron. The steak sent up a most inviting 
incense, and my lord could not resist Rich’s invitation 
to partake of it. A further supply was sent for: and a 
bottle or two of excellent wine from a neighbouring 
tavern, prolonged their discourse to a late hour. But 
so delighted was the old peer with his entertainment, 
that, on going away, he proposed renewing it at the 
same place and hour on the Saturday following. He 
was punctual to his engagement, and brought with him 
three or four friends, “ men of wit and pleasure about 
town,” as Mr. Bayes would call them; and so truly 
festive was the meeting, that it was proposed that a 
^Saturday’s club should be held there, whilst the town 
remained full. 

A sumptuary law, even at this early period of the 
Society, restricted the bill of fare to beaf-steaks, and 
the beverage to port wine and punch. 

Thus the corner-stone of the Sublime Society was 
laid. But the original gridiron upon which Rich had 
broiled his solitary steak, being insufficient in a short 
time for the supernumerary worshippers in the temple 
of beef and liberty, the relic was enshrined as one of 
the tutelary and household divinities of the Club. For¬ 
tunately, it escaped the fire which consumed Govent 
Garden a few years since, and now presents itself, encir¬ 
cled with its motto, and suspended from the ceiling to 
every eye, which can spare a wandering glance from 
the beaf-steak smoking before it. Nor is there any 
doubt that the religio loci , the sanctity of place, has 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


9 


been amongst the influences that have preserved the 
Club to so reverend an age. Upon this principle, its 
founders seem to have calculated, when they resolved 
that it should be held for ever in a theatre, the invari¬ 
able tenure on which, unless in cases of inevitable 
necessity, it has ever subsisted. 

In that fire, alas ! perished the original archives of 
the Society. The lovers of wit and pleasantry have 
much to deplore in that loss, inasmuch as not only the 
names of many of the early members are irretrievably 
gone, but what is more to be regretted, some of their 
happiest effusions ; for it was then customary to register 
in the weekly records, any thing of striking excellence 
that had been hit off in the course of the evening. 

This, however, is certain, that the Beaf-Steaks, from 
its foundation to the present hour, has been 

-native to famous wits 

Or hospitable— 

that as guests or members, persons distinguished for 
rank, and social and convivial powers, have, through 
successive generations, been seated at its festive board. 
Bubb Doddington, Aaron Hill, Hoadley, the author of 
the Suspicious Husband, Leonidas Glover, are only 
a few names snatched from the slender traditions that 
remain of its first ages. 

Of these, no one was more distinguished for the 
brilliancy of his parts, and for the variety and sweet¬ 
ness of his conversation, than Sir Peere Williams, a 
young gentleman of birth and fashion. He had made 
already several eloquent speeches in parliament, and 
given the most promising omens of future distinction. 
This ill-fated youth fell at the siege of Belleisle. He 






10 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


went thither, it seems, not more from the spirit of mili¬ 
tary enterprise, than to fly from a hopeless attachment. 
His disappointment (the causes of it cannot now be 
traced) o’er-mastered his fine spirits, and rendered him 
careless of existence. In the recklessness of a despond¬ 
ing state of mind, he approached too near one of the 
enemy’s sentinels, and was shot through the body. 

Slight fragments only remain of the early history of 
the Society. Of its first members, each in his turn has 
been knocked about the mazzard by the sexton’s spade. 
Then came the days of Lord Sandwich, Wilkes, Bonnell 
Thornton, Arthur Murphy, Churchill, and Tickell, the 
author of the liveliest of hits, Anticipation. Descend¬ 
ing nearer our own times, we find there the present 
king, when prince of Wales,* the late duke of Norfolk, 
Charles Morris, and others, the delecta Danaum , the 
pride and flower of modern London. 

Nor is the Society’s brightness yet obscured. I shall 
presently attempt a faint commemoration of a few of 
the luminaries that still shine at its board. But is it 
not a proud victory over time, that amid the dissolu¬ 
tions of the greatest confederations, and the crumbling 
ruin of states and kingdoms, this cheerful fraternity has 
so long defied the common destroyer of man and his 

* On Saturday, the 14th of May, the prince of Wales was admit¬ 
ted a member of the Beef-Steak Club. His royal highness having 
signified his wish of belonging to that Society, and there not being 
a vacancy, it was proposed to make him an honorary member ; but 
that being declined by his royal highness, it was agreed to increase 
the number from twenty-four to twenty-five, in consequence of 
which his royal highness was unanimously elected. The Beef- 
Steak Club has been instituted just fifty years, and consists of some 
of the most classical and sprightly wits in the kingdom .—See Annual 
Register , vol. xxvii. for 1785. 


THE BEAF-STEAK CLUB. 


11 


institutions ? But look at their charter, and cease to 
admire.—It is Beef and Liberty. The spirit of the 
Club is its own most emphatically. Nothing foreign, 
borrowed, or adventitious. It is obvious, that no ante¬ 
cedent rule or regulation could have formed such a 
Club. Good-humour, mirth, mutual forbearance, open- 
hearted communication, the postponement of every 
selfish feeling to the general hilarity and happiness; 
these can be produced by no rule or regulation. It 
should seem that the spirit of the Beaf-Steaks, like that 
of the English constitution, resides in no especial max¬ 
im, but informs "and animates the whole system—at 
once its parent and result—producing, and reproduced. 

Yet, whether this happy effect has flowed from ac¬ 
cident or design, or the felicitous combination of both, 

it is a soil and climate in which ill-humour cannot 

• / 

vegetate. Place a man there accursed with a peevish 
temper, some spoiled son of fortune, or of his mother; 
in that society, take my word for it, he will be soon an 
altered being, or he will assume the virtue he has not; 
a discipline which, not unfrequently, makes a man 
what he affects to be. In this respect, it has worked 
miracles far beyond Prince Hohenloe’s ; converting 
morose cynics into easy and placid companions; 
fro ward disputants into tranquil listeners. Not that it 
is often necessary to put this salutary process to the 
test; for every candidate must undergo a previous in¬ 
quisition as to his temper and good sense, which, in 
fact, are synonymous; and, for this purpose, he must 
attend twice, or thrice, or oftener, if need be, when 
his patience in sustaining, and his smartness in repel¬ 
ling, the good-natured satire of the place, are minutely 
noted. In spite, however, of this ordeal, a waspish 


12 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


blockhead will now and then creep in. But wo to 
him when he is there ! The fabled torments of poetry 
are a joke to what he has to go through. Ixion’s wheel 
is only a cockney’s velocipede; the stone of Sisyphus 
a mere game of bowls in the comparison. He must 
either withdraw altogether, or, involving himself within 
the integument of his natural dulness, sit and listen in 
silence. 

Lord Sandwich’s, Wilkes’s, Churchill’s, are generally 
quoted as the golden period of the Society. I am old 
enough to remember Arthur Murphy, and from him l 
have heard many anecdotes of it at that time, for he 
dwelt fondly on the pleasant nights he had passed at 
the Beef-Steaks. It must be remembered, that con¬ 
vivial societies then were less restrained in particular 
points than at present. Coarseness of expression was 
no objection to a witty saying, provided it was witty. 
It was at one of these Saturnalia that Lord Sandwich 
received Wilkes’s answer to the indecent alternative he 
had put to him. “That depends,” replied Wilkes, 
u upon this—whether I embrace your lordship’s prin¬ 
ciples or your mistress.” We cannot now detail the 
whole anecdote; it is, however, so well known, that a 
slight allusion will recall it. Churchill was a convivial, 
but a very intemperate companion. There was a short 
day-light interval betwixt the flatness of his unexcited 
spirits, and the confusion of positive inebriety : in that 
short interval Charles Churchill was radiant. Every 
thing he said told; it hit between wind and water. A 
person of the name of Bradshaw was at that time a 
member of the Beef-Steaks. He was vain of being 
descended from the regicide of that name. He was 
one day on his favourite topic, boasting of his ances- 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


13 


tor’s patriotism, when Churchill exclaimed, “Ah, Brad¬ 
shaw, don’t crow! The Stuarts have been amply 
avenged for the loss of Charles’s head, for you have 
not had a head in your whole family ever since.” At 
another time, a gentleman happening to cough vehe¬ 
mently, from the distressing accident of something 
“ going the wrong way,” Churchill said to him, “ If 
you are subject to it, I will tell you how to avoid it 
for the future.” “How, how?” inquired the other. 
“ Why,” returned Charles, “ you have only to put up a 
direction-post in your throat, and you may be sure that 
then every thing will go right.” 

Churchill was not long a member. He owed his 
introduction to Wilkes, but his irregularities were so 
gross that he ceased at length to be a welcome visitant; 
and having shamefully deserted his wife, whose con¬ 
duct was irreproachable, his reception after that affair 
was such as induced him to resign. It is not apparent 
for what reason, but he attributed the circumstance to 
Lord Sandwich, and the affront stimulated him to the 
satire which he wrote against that nobleman. It began 
thus— 

w From his youth upwards to the present day, 

When vices more than years have made him grey; 

When riotous excess with wasteful hand, 

Shakes life’s frail glass, and hastes each ebbing sand; 
Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth, 

Untainted with one deed of real worth; 

Lothario, holding honour at no price, 

Folly to folly added, vice to vice, 

Wrought sin with greediness, and courted shame 
With greater zeal than good men seek for fame.” 

As a poet, Churchill was much over-rated. He has 
now sunk to his level. He has only now and then a 
VOL. ii.—2 


14 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


vigorous masculine line to atone for a long series of 
prosaic ones. Johnson always maintained him to be a 
shallow fellow. His popularity was never of an envi¬ 
able kind. His satire administered to the bad feelings 
of the heart, and was read by those chiefly who love 
to see worth depreciated, and distinctions laid low. 
He died at Bologne, during a visit to his friend Wilkes, 
then an exile, and was buried at Dover. 

David Garrick was a great ornament of the Beef- 
Steaks. He had no slight tincture of vanity, and was 
fond of accusing himself, to use Lord Chesterfield's 
phrase, of the cardinal virtues. Having remarked at 
the Club that he had so large a mass of manuscript 
plays submitted to his perusal, that they were constantly 
liable to be mislaid, he observed, that unpleasant as it 
was to reject an author’s piece, it was an affront to the 
poor devil’s feelings if it could not be instantly found ; 
and that for this reason he made a point of ticketing 
and labelling the play that was to be returned, that it 
might be forthcoming at a moment’s notice. “ A fig 
for your hypocrisy!” exclaimed Murphy, across the 
table. “ You know, Davy, you mislaid my tragedy two 
months ago, and I make no doubt you have lost it.” 
“ Yes,” replied Garrick; “but you forget, you ungrate¬ 
ful dog, that 1 offered you more than its value, for you 
might have had two manuscript farces in its stead.” 

On one occasion, Garrick dined in the Beef-Steak 
room at Covent Garden, ready dressed in character for 
the part of Ranger, which he was to perform the same 
night at the other theatre. Ranger appears in the 
opening of the comedy, and as the curtain was not 
drawn up at the usual time, the audience began to 
manifest considerable impatience, for Garrick had not 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


15 


yet arrived. A call-boy was instantly despatched for 
him, but he was unfortunately retarded by a line of 
carriages that blocked up the whole of Russell street, 
which it was necessary for him to cross. This pro¬ 
tracted still further the commencement of the piece, 
and the house evinced considerable dissatisfaction, with 
cries of “ Manager, manager!” When Garrick, at length, 
reached the green-room, he found Dr. Ford, one of the 
patentees, pacing backwards and forwards with great 
agitation. The moment the doctor saw him, he ad¬ 
dressed him in a strong tone of rebuke, “ I think, David, 
considering the stake you and I have in this theatre, 
you might pay more attention to its business.” “ True, 
my good friend,” returned Garrick, “ I should have 
been in good time, but I was thinking of my steak in 
the other.” The appearance of their favourite soon 
pacified the audience, and Garrick went through the 
character with more vivacity than ever. 

It is well known that Wilkes did not intend his ob¬ 
noxious Essay on Woman for publication. It came 
into the hands of Lord Halifax, then secretary of state, 
in consequence of the general seizure of all Wilkes’s 
papers, by virtue of a general warrant; and the house 
of lords proceeded against it as a breach of privilege, 
part of it being a satirical attack upon Warburton, 
bishop of Gloucester. Wilkes, having privately printed 
it for circulation among his friends, presented a copy 
of it to the Beef-Steaks. To his great surprise, how¬ 
ever, the grossness of its language, and the unblushing 
blasphemy that pervaded it, excited the disgust of every 
member, and it was unanimously rejected. Wilkes 
did not visit the Club afterwards; but, when he left the 
kingdom, he was made an honorary member, as a com- 


1G 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


pliment justly due to the wit, spirit, and humour which 
had so long delighted the table. 

Arthur Murphy gave me sketches of several charac¬ 
ters who flourished at the Beef-Steaks about that period; 
some of them were most amusing originals. There was 
a Serjeant Prime, who furnished an unfailing flow of 
merriment. Several ludicrous adventures, which, if 
they did not actually happen, were at least ascribed to 
the little lawyer, were sure to find at the Beef-Steaks 
some waggish historian to recount them. To one in¬ 
cident Murphy pledged his own veracity. The Ser¬ 
jeant had arranged with another lawyer, who was also 
of a very diminutive size, to travel together on horse¬ 
back the ensuing spring circuit. This lawyer generally 
went by the name of Frog Morgan, from his having so 
repeatedly cited in an argument before the King’s 
Bench, Croke Elizabeth, Croke James, Croke Charles,* 
that the whole bar were convulsed with laughter. Ano¬ 
ther anecdote of him was current in Westminster Hall. 
Before he was much known at the bar, he had com¬ 
menced an argument, but Lord Mansfield, not aware 
of his stature, called upon him repeatedly “ to get up,” 
convinced that he was not addressing the court stand¬ 
ing. “My Lord, I am up,” screamed out Frog Mor¬ 
gan, “ and 1 have been up this ten minutes.” But to 
my anecdote: Serjeant Prime, having hired a steady 
animal, set out on the Norfolk circuit with his friend 
Morgan; and, for the first week, the horse performed 
his part of the contract with a gravity not unbecoming 
the coif. But the stable-keeper had provided the Ser- 

* This reporter lived in those three reigns; and his reports are 
always cited with the names of the reign when the decisions took 
place. 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


17 


jeant with a steed of a certain description, a circum¬ 
stance of which Prime had no suspicion; and Frog 
Morgan, being mounted on a mare, the Serjeant’s 
charger, one fine spring morning, lost sight of his 
decorum, and approached his companion with a fami¬ 
liarity that surprised and alarmed the two horsemen, 
equally unconscious of the sex of their respective 
horses. The point, however, was put out of doubt by 
an assault, which threw off poor Prime, and almost 
terminated in the annihilation of little Morgan, who 
had no power to dismount. Wilkes took a malicious 
pleasure in relating this adventure at the Beef-Steaks. 
When the Serjeant perceived that Wilkes was about to 
tell it, he exclaimed, “For God’s sake, Mr. Alderman, 
leave off your horse-play raillery.” 

Arthur Murphy, when he recounted to me these and 
many other anecdotes of the Beef-Steaks, was residing 
at Hammersmith, and living upon a small income, 
chiefly derived from the profits of a commission of 
bankrupts, and from the copy-right of his translation of 
Tacitus. He was originally at the bar, but the law, a 
jealous mistress, that will endure no rival, had forsaken 
him as soon as he devoted himself to dramatic litera¬ 
ture. He was then old, but his memory was singularly 
retentive. No man had a more ample knowledge of 
the world, or abounded more agreeably in the chit-chat, 
which a knowledge of the world supplies. He went 
the same circuit with this Serjeant Prime, and nothing, 
Murphy assured me, could be more distressing than the 
length and drowsiness of the little man’s speeches. 
Bench, bar, jurors, attornies, all felt their soporific 
effect;—even the javelin-men were observed nodding. 
A counsel, getting up to reply to him, began, “ Gentle- 
2 * 


18 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


men, the long speech of the learned Serjeant”— U 1 beg 
your pardon, sir,” interrupted Mr. Justice Nares, “you 
might say the long soliloquy of the learned Serjeant, for 
my brother Prime has been talking an hour to himself.” 

At the circuit-table, there is sometimes held a court 
for the trial of professional irregularities; and convic¬ 
tion is generally followed by a fine, which is spent in 
wine for the benefit of the mess. It was resolved to 
try Prime for the length and drowsiness of his speeches; 
and a somewhat serious accident furnished an apt occa¬ 
sion for the joke. An ejectment cause at Huntingford 
had lasted the whole day; and being a matter of much 
expectation, the court was exceedingly hot and crowd¬ 
ed. In the middle of a three hours’ speech, in which 
Prime was then addressing the jury, a poor lad, who 
had seated himself on a beam that went across the roof, 
fell fast asleep, and came tumbling down among the 
crowd below. He escaped with a few bruises, hut seve¬ 
ral persons were much hurt. This circumstance was 
pressed into the aggravation of the case made out 
against the Serjeant, who was fined three dozen of 
wine, which he paid with great good humour. 

Arthur Murphy considered an evening passed at the 
Beef-Steaks, to be the consummation of social enjoy¬ 
ment. Many years afterwards, a friend introduced me 
to that festive board, nor was I sensible to sundry 
whisperings of ambition, that hinted to me how delight¬ 
ful a thing it must be to be enrolled among its mem¬ 
bers. Mingay was the person who took me, and I 
think it was in the year 1799. 

I do not recollect all who were present on than day, 
but I remarked particularly John Kemble, Cobb of the 
India House, His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence, 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


19 


Sir John Cox Hippisley, Charles Morris, Ferguson of 
Aberdeen, and his Grace of Norfolk. This nobleman 
took the chair when the cloth was removed. It is a 
place of dignity, elevated some steps above the table, 
and decorated with the various insignia of the Society; 
amongst which was suspended the identical small 
cocked hat in which Garrick used to play the part of 
Ranger. As soon as the clock strikes five, a curtain 
draws up, discovering the kitchen, in which the cooks 
are dimly seen plying their several offices, through a 
sort of grating, with this appropriate motto from Mac¬ 
beth inscribed over it:— 

“ If it were done, when ’tis done, then ’twere 

WELL 

It were done quickly.” 

But the steaks themselves ;—they were of the highest 
order, and I can never forget the good will with which 
they were devoured. In this respect, no one surpassed 
the Duke of Norfolk. He was totus in Mis. Eyes, 
hands, mouth, were all intensely exercised; not a 
faculty played the deserter. His appetite literally grew 
by what it fed on. Two or three succeeding steaks, 
fragrant from the gridiron, rapidly vanished. In my 
simplicity, I thought that his labours were over. I was 
deceived, for I observed him rubbing a clean plate 
with a shalot, to prepare it for the reception of another. 

A pause of ten minutes ensued, and his Grace rested 
upon his knife and fork; hut it was only a pause, and I 
found that there was a good reason for it. Like the 
epic, a rump of beef has a beginning, a middle, and an 
end. The palate of an experienced beef-steaker can 
discern all its progressive varieties, from the first cut to 


20 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


the last; and he is a mere tyro at the business, who 
does not know, that towards the middle there lurks a 
fifth essence, the perfect ideal of tenderness and flavour. 
Epicurism itself, in its fanciful combinations of culinary 
excellence, never dreamed of any thing surpassing it. 
For this cut, the Duke had wisely tarried, and for this 
he re-collected his forces. At last he desisted, but more 
I thought from fatigue than satiety; lassatus , non satia- 
tus. I need not hint, that powerful irrigations of port 
encouraged and relieved at intervals the organs engaged 
in this severe duty. 

Nor could I help admiring that his Grace, proverbially 
an idolater of the table, should have dined with such 
perfect complacency upon beef-steaks ;—he whose eyes 
and appetite roved every day amidst the rich variety 
of a ducal banquet, to which ocean, earth, and air, 
paid their choicest contingents. His palate, I thought, 
would sigh as in captivity for the range in which it was 
wont to expatiate. A member, who sate next me, 
remarked, that in beef-steaks there was considerable 
variety, and he had seen the most finished gourmands 
about the town quite delighted with the simple repast 
of the Society. But with regard to the Duke of Nor¬ 
folk, he hinted, that it was his custom, on a beef-steak 
day, to eat a preliminary dish of fish in his own espe¬ 
cial box at the Piazza, and then adjourn time enough 
for the beef-steaks. He added also, and 1 heartily con¬ 
curred in his remark, that a mere dish of fish could 
make no more difference to the iron digestion of his 
Grace, than a tenpenny nail, more or less, in that of an 
ostrich. After dinner, the duke was ceremoniously 
ushered to the chair, and invested with an orange- 
coloured ribbon, to which a silver medal, in the form 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


21 


of a gridiron, was appended. In the chair, he com¬ 
ported himself with great urbanity and good-humour. 
On common occasions, the president is the target, at 
which all the jests and witticisms of the table are fired. 
On this, the fire was moderate; for though a charac¬ 
teristic equality reigns at the Beef-Steaks, the influences 
of rank and station are felt there, as they are in every 
society composed of English gentlemen; and a cour¬ 
tesy stole insensibly upon those, who at other times 
were the most merciless assailants on the chair. I 
observed then, and I afterwards found my observation 
confirmed, that the duke’s conversation was various, 
embracing a large circle of anecdote, and displaying 
much of the terseness of phrase, and accuracy of think¬ 
ing, familiar to men who have combined much experi¬ 
ence with considerable reading. I was astonished to see 
how little effect the sturdy port wine of the Society 
produced on his adamantine constitution; for the same 
abhorrence of a vacuum, which had disposed him to 
do such ample justice to his dinner, showed itself no 
less in his unflinching devotion to the bottle. 

Charles Morris, the bard of the Club, sung one or 
two excellent songs, of his own composition, the very 
essence of convivial mirth and fancy; and, at nine 
o’clock, the duke of Norfolk quitted the chair, and Sir 
John Hippisley was called to that unenviable dignity. 
Poor man, he had a terrible time of it. A storm of 
“ arrowy sleet and iron shower” whistled from all 
points in his ears. All the rules of civilised warfare 
seemed to have been suspended; even the new mem¬ 
bers tried their first timid essays upon the baronet. It 
consoled me, however, to hear that no man was more 
prompt to attack others than Sir John. He was evi- 


22 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


dently disconcerted, but he sustained it with great 
patience. I afterwards learned that he quitted the 
Society in consequence of an odd adventure, which 
really happened to him; and which, being related with 
malicious fidelity by one of the wags at the Beef-Steaks, 
raised a shout of laughter at his expense. 

Sir John was an intelligent man, though not of the 
highest rank of intellect. Windham used to say of 
him, that he was very near being a clever man. He 
was fond of business, and, having no employment of 
his own, was in the habit of entering with warm inte¬ 
rest into the affairs of others, which he instinctively 
considered as his own. His insatiable curiosity led 
him into several singular perplexities. But his over¬ 
ruling passion was that of visiting remarkable crimi¬ 
nals, and obtaining their stories from their own lips. 
A murder had been committed by one Batch upon a 
Mr. Bligh, of Deptford; the proofs against him were 
merely circumstantial, but they cohered so remarkably, 
that the inference of his guilt was almost irresistible. 
The case excited considerable attention, but many 
well-disposed persons remained in that state of doubt 
concerning it, which is intolerably painful, when the 
life of a human being is in jeopardy. 

Amongst others, Sir John felt much anxiety on the 
subject, and thought that it could only be relieved by 
the culprit’s confession. For this end, he importuned 
the poor wretch incessantly, but in vain. Patch per¬ 
sisted in asserting his innocence, till, wearied with 
Hippisley’s applications, he assured the baronet, that 
he would reveal to him on the scaffold all that he knew 
of Mr. Bligh’s death. Flattered with being made the 
depository of this mysterious communication, Sir John 




THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


23 


mounted the drop with Patch, and was seen for some 
minutes in close conference with him. It happened, 
that a simple old woman from the country was in the 
crowd assembled at the execution. Her eyes, intent 
upon the awful scene, were fixed, by an accidental 
misdirection, upon Sir John, whom she mistook for the 
person who was about to be executed; and, not waiting 
till the criminal was actually turned off, she went away 
with the impression ; the peculiar face, and, above all, 
the peculiar nose (a most miraculous organ) of Hip- 
pisley, being indelibly impressed on her memory. Not 
many days after, the good lady met Sir John in Cheap- 
side. The certainty that it was Patch seized her so 
forcibly, that she screamed loudly out to the passing 
crowd, “ It’s Patch, it’s Patch; I saw him hanged; Christ 
deliver me!” and then fainted. When this incident 
was first related at the Beef-Steaks, a mock inquest 
was set on foot, to decide whether Sir John was Patch 
or not, and unanimously decided in the affirmative. 

Ferguson of Aberdeen has been already mentioned. 
He was a singular character, and endued with a pecu¬ 
liar species of dry humour. In the house of commons 
he was noted for a faculty, somewhat akin to that of 
ventriloquism. If a prosing speaker got on his legs 
about the expected hour of division, and the ordinary 
means, such as coughing, yawning, banging the green 
door, proved ineffectual, Ferguson retired to a side 
gallery, squatted himself on a side bench, so as to be 
out of the speaker’s eye, and sent forth such unearthly 
sounds, that, while they completely silenced the bore, 
no one could divine whence they proceeded. Of this 
Ferguson, they used to tell a characteristic anecdote.— 
During a debate in the beginning of the French war, 


24 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


he had retired to dine at Bellamy’s, with two or three 
other members. As they were sitting over their wine, 
a messenger announced that Mr. Pitt was up. Instantly 
every one hurried down stairs to hear him. Ferguson, 
unwilling to quit his bottle, pressed the party to stay. 
u Why, Pitt is up,” was the answer. “ That’s nothing 
to me,” said Ferguson. “ Let us have some more wine; 
for I am sure that it is the very thing that Pitt himself 
would do, if he were here, and they were to tell him 
that I was speaking.” 

The memory of this agreeable evening, so much out 
of the circle of conviviality, sank deep within me. Ever 
and anon it visited me, amid the prosaic, dull festivities 
we are doomed to undergo in the common routine of 
life—those stale, vulgar communions, in which we herd 
rather than associate—where the mirth is without 
images, tbejest without fancy, and the wine inebriates 
rather than gladdens. In the year 1812, however, I 
was honoured with the rare and enviable distinction of 
becoming a member of the Sublime Society. It was 
then domiciled, for a short time, at the Bedford, under 
the piazza, the beautiful apartments at Arnold’s theatre, 
where it now holds its meetings, not being quite finish¬ 
ed. During this interval, 1 remarked some change of 
faces, but the heart, the spirit of the Club, is unchanged 
and the same. 1 was, of course, not unmindful of the 
ordeal I had to undergo; but one thing comforted and 
reassured me.—Two or three had found their way there, 
who were far from being prodigies; one, in particular, 
put me quite at my ease. I said to myself, under this 
fellow’s gabardine will I crawl when the storm hisses 
around me. When we are diffident of ourselves, how 
delightful it is to find somebody whom, in the most be- 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


2 5 


nighted state of our faculties, we are sure to surpass ! 
Yet this very animal, so providentially coming to my 
aid, and making me a sort of luminary in the compari¬ 
son, was the personification of self-complacency. It 
was his felicity to he convinced that his excellency lay 
in the very point where he was the most disqualified. 
For instance, his voice was bad, nay, it was distressing, 
and resembled, in all but vivacity, that of a male pig 
while they are qualifying him to become a singer. Yet 
he left olf his dismal quavers with the conscious satis¬ 
faction of a first rate performer. To satire, ridicule, 
sarcasm, he was quite inaccessible. How I envied the 
dog’s beatitude ! Nay, he had brought himself to be¬ 
lieve that he was the most ample contributor to the wit 
and fancy of the Club, and that the happiest hits of the 
evening were his ; like the idiot of Hierocles, who, as 
he walked along the Piraeus, took every vessel that en¬ 
tered the harbour for his own. And herein I could 
not choose but admire the kind provisions of Nature, 
in whose benevolent scheme qualities are so nicely 
distributed, and so evenly poised. Here was a creature, 
rioting in the dreams of his own superiority, who, had 
he been aware how niggardly he had been dealt by in 
the distribution of human endowments, must have 
hanged himself in pure vexation. He was worse than 
useless lumber at the Beef-Steaks; he laid on it “ like 
marl encumbering the soil it could not fertilize.” Of 
course the artillery of the table played profusely upon 
him ; but this armed rhinoceros could feel nothing. 
« ***** i s dead,” said somebody to him, giving 

him a tap of the shoulder, finding him somewhat silent. 
“ Dead,” replied the other, “ I am not dead,thank God.” 
u Yes, ]VI * * * * *, you are dead,” exclaimed Cobb. 

VOL. ii. —3 


26 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“ I will prove it;—first you are a dead weight to the 
Society ; secondly, you are not alive to your own de¬ 
ficiencies.” From this time, he was called the late Mr. 
M * * * * *, and, not relishing the title, he withdrew in 
disgust. The spirit of the Club seemed to breathe more 
freely when this incubus was removed from it. 

I wish my reader could see the Sublime Society at 
one of its festive sittings in the comfortable asylum 
prepared for the members at Arnold’s theatre, when 
they were burnt away from Covent Garden, and to 
which they migrated like iEneas and his Trojans, with 
all that they could save from Troy. Enough, however, 
was saved from that fire to keep up the historic interest 
that connects us with the ancient days of the Club. 
Still 

Reliquias veterumque vides monumenta virorum, 

and I really believe, allowing for the changes which in 
a long cycle of years will steal upon all that is human, 
that it is still the nurse of true English conviviality, the 
seat of that easy festivity, which equally quickens the 
the fancy and warms the heart. It has, no doubt, some¬ 
what declined from the era when Wilkes, Lord Sand¬ 
wich, Thornton, the elder Colman, Leonidas Glover, 
and Churchill, assembled at its board. But even at 
that Augustan period, its present character was quaintly 
sketched by Tom Warton, who travelled from Oxford 
merely to pass one day there. That best-natured and 
drollest of beings, being asked how he liked it, replied 
“Very much, my boys ! You are all to my mind. 1 
know not how to describe you, but you seem to belong 
to the tribe of the Ot £ovt nape u (Hoi don’tcare a 

dammoi.)” The don’t-care-a-d—n feeling still exists 
unquenchably among us: a freedom which, by mutual 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


27 


convention, is permitted to press closely on the limits 
of good breeding, but never to overleap them. Yet 
there was a period not many years since, (at my time of 
life we live but in retrospect,) which I wish could be re¬ 
called. Had you but seen Cobb* there! It is now 
upwards of seven years that he has been taken from us, 
but the vacancy he has left in our hearts is not yet tilled 
up. 

Unimitated, inimitable Cobb ! How shall I portray 
thee ? I know how a cold-blooded limner would set 
about it. He would give a dry inventory of thy good 
qualities ; but that his sky-blue diluted panegyric might 
not be taken for flattery, he would water it down to 
the flat insipidity of his own candour, with a remark 
in the puling tone of impartiality, that on the other 
hand—how hateful are these per contra credits—Cobb 
had faults. Faults! to be sure he had,but why remind 
us of them? Give me the man, who, when he registers 
the amiable qualities of a departed friend, sees nothing 
more; and who scorns to mix a mawkish mixture of 
censure in the sparkling cup of reflection, whose in¬ 
cense curls gratefully up to the skies. I see no fault in 
a friend who is torn from my side. The memory of 
those whom death or absence has removed from us, is 
a mirror that reflects only what is good, and from 
which the vapour breathed by a censorious criticism 
instantly flies off. Poor Cobb’s faults vanished with 
the last sigh that departed from his lips : with that sigh 
they melted into the unstained, ethereal element, with 
which good spirits become blended. Of Cobb I re¬ 
member only the steady, the kind, the hospitable friend; 


* Late secretary at the India House. 



28 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


the host whose wine, as it ran to the brim to cheer 
you, borrowed new brightness from the brightest of 
countenances, that frowned only if you passed it by un¬ 
tasted ;—the mirthful being, in whose society the hour 
of departure stole like a thief unsuspected upon you ;— 
the man of the world, the least tainted with the suspi¬ 
cion and selfish indifference incident to those who have 
seen much of it, and who, “ learned” as he was “ in 
human dealings,” had extracted from that learning a 
forgiving and indulgent pity for human frailty. Is it 
not worth a pilgrimage barefooted from the remotest 
corners of the world, to scatter the fairest flowers which 
the earth nourishes in her bosom, on the shrine of an 
honest creature, whose whole life was good humour, 
good nature,and beneficence in action? 

Cobb was an admirable beef-steaker, and played off 
a delightful pleasantry. The friendly satire and raillery 
of the Society, he took with incomparable temper. In 
the chair he sustained, and returned the fire with the 
greatest promptitude, and silenced his assailants one by 
one, as the shepherd in Spenser brushes off the u cloud 
of cumbrous gnats” that molested him. Cobb was the 
author of several dramatic pieces. His farce, called the 
First Floor, kept possession of the stage for many 
years. To some of his comic operas, particularly his 
Haunted Tower, and Siege of Belgrade, Storace set 
some of his finest music. His last, called Ramah Drug,* 
was not successful. 

At the Beef-Steaks, an author, a dramatic author 
especially, is fair game. Once, when the Fescennine 
license of the Club was running high against poor 

'■'S 

* The scene was in Hindostan, and Drug, or Droog, in the lan¬ 
guage of the country, means a hill-fort. 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


29 


Cobb, his dramatic productions did not escape.— 
“ Cobb!” said Arnold, 44 what a misnomer it was to 
call your opera the Haunted Tower. Why, there was 
no spirit in it from beginning to end!” 44 Yes,” ex¬ 
claimed some other desperate punster, (I cannot now 
recall who it was,) 44 but Cobbg ave one of his pieces 
the most appropriate title possible, by calling it Ramah 
Drug ; for it was literally ramming a drug down the 
public throat.” 44 True,” rejoined Cobb; “but it was 
a drug that evinced considerable power, for it operated 
on the public twenty nights in succession.” 44 My good 
friend,” said Arnold, triumphantly, 44 that was a proof 
of its weakness, if it took so long in working.” 44 Ar¬ 
nold, you are right,” retorted Cobb : 44 in that respect, 
your play (Arnold had brought out a play, which did 
not survive the first night) had the advantage of mine; 
that was so powerful a drug, that it was thrown up as 
soon as it was taken!” 

These good-humoured reciprocations never produced 
the slightest misunderstanding; a rare felicity, seeing 
the unrestrained spirit of banter that reigns there : but 
in those who carried on this keen encounter, the ele¬ 
ments were most propitiously blended. Arnold was a 
fellow of infinite jest. Beneath an exterior not polish¬ 
ed to the last degree of refinement, there lurked not 
only the sterling qualities of the heart, but a rough, 
masculine understanding. He was a manly and ingen¬ 
uous being; nor, according to my creed, is it any dero¬ 
gation from those qualities, that he worshipped good 
wine 44 without a drop of allaying Tiber in it;” for his 
honest face turned to the bottle with as true a devotion 
as the Mussulman’s to Mecca. I have spoken of him 
in the past tense, for I have not seen him for many 



30 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


years. Alas ! that it should be the only tense, in which 
we can speak of the few pleasures that are indulged to 
us! 

I wish that I could worthily commemorate an illus¬ 
trious member of the Sublime Society, then most 
assiduous in his attendance. But let me not injure 
the likeness by colours too faint, and a pencil too timid 
to portray him; else I might endeavour to sketch the 
kind, the benevolent, and unaffected virtues of His 
Royal Highness the Duke of Sussex. And why should 
I echo that “ whereof all England rings from side to 
side ?” No man enters more cordially into the humour 
of the Club, the equality of its spirit, or its sharp but 
innocent encounters. Nor do 1 believe, that what is 
due to him as a prince and a gentleman, was ever 
overlooked in that club, even in the most unrestrained 
moment of mirth. On his part, so true, so inbred is 
his own sense of dignity, that never by a look, or a 
word, or a supercilious retiring within himself, did he 
check the current of its honest gladness; but, on the 
contrary, he gave it fresh life and saliency as it ran mur¬ 
muring by him. 

But Charles Morris—can any one think of the Beef- 
Steaks without including thy reverend image in the 
picture ? The faculties of man are not equal to an ab¬ 
straction so metaphysical. For many, many .years, 
during which several of man's autumnal generations 
have fallen, he has been faithful at his post. He is the 
bard of the Society, who, in the person of this her 
favourite disciple, may still boast non caret vate sacro , 
for time has not yet struck this old deer of the forest. 
You should have seen him, as was his wont at the 
period I am speaking of, making the Society’s punch, 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


31 


his ancient and rightful office. It was pleasing to see 
him at his laboratory at the sideboard, stocked with 
the varied products that enter into the composition of 
that nectareous mixture; then smacking an elementary 
glass or two, and giving a significant nod, the fiat of its 
excellence; and what could exceed the extacy with 
which he filled the glasses that thronged around the 
bowl; joying over its mantling beauties with an artist’s 
pride, and distributing the fascinating draught 

“ That flames and dances in its crystal bound ?” 

Well has our laureate earned his wreath. At that table 
his best songs have been sung; for that table his best 
songs were written. His allegiance to the Beef-Steaks 
has been an undivided allegiance. Neither hail, nor 
shower, nor snow-storm, have kept him away;—no en¬ 
gagement, no invitation seduced him from it. I have 
have seen him there “ outwatching the bear” in his 
seventy-eighth year; for as yet Nature had given no 
signal of decay in frame or faculty ; but you saw him in 
a green and vigorous old age, tripping mirthfully along 
the downhill of existence, without languor, or gout, or 
any of the penalties exacted by time for the mournful 
privilege of living. I never knew any man less infected 
with the vanity of being thought younger than he is: 
and so far from wiping any thing from the score, I am 
convinced that, by an amiable fraud, our old bard now 
and then posts in his leger a year or two more than 
he ought to do. His face is still resplendent with cheer¬ 
fulness. “ Die when you will, Charles,” said Curran 
to him, “you will die in your youth.” 

Charles, under his well-known appellation of Captain 
Morris, is now, perhaps, the sole surviving veteran of 



32 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


those who figured in convivial life forty years ago; and 
through life he has secured a degree of esteem which 
is rarely shared by the mere ministers of pleasure, who 
are for the most part forgot when the bowl is drained, 
and the roar of the carousal has ceased. More than 
one generation has he seen drop from his side, of 
whom he might say, in the words of one of his best 
songs— 

“ If I’ve shortened their days, I have lengthened their nights.” 

' 4, v 

A race of water-drinkers has succeeded, and the pota¬ 
tions of those days (such is the more than Homeric 
degeneracy of our modern Bacchanals) cannot he com¬ 
prehended by the «>7o7 wv uvtyes. A rabbit that casts its 
litter in six weeks might as well strive at the gestation 
of an elephant, as the bon vivant of the present day to 
carry olf what his ancestors of that period could hide 
beneath their girdles. In the frolic days of Carlton 
House, Charles was often admitted to its happy circles. 
Nor was he afterwards forgotten by his royal patron, 
who never forgot the friends that cheered his lighter 
hours. Yes, the same bounty (let calumny say what 
it will) which has often warmed into life those whom 
the world has left to die, giving them only, with its 
wonted liberality, the choice of the dunghill on which 
they rotted—that bounty was shed upon Charles Morris, 
at a season, too, when it was wanted: and for many 
years he has enjoyed from that princely hand a com¬ 
fortable stipend. Our old bard appreciates it as he 
ought. It is a memorial which will never depart from 
him; the remembrance of it will soothe his latest 
moments. 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


33 


It is equally due to the late Duke of Norfolk to re¬ 
mark, that our venerable minstrel was indebted to him 
ior that snug Sabine retreat in which his old age is now 
pillowed; a charming spot near Dorking, embosomed 
amidst the gentle undulating elevations of Surry. There, 
in a peaceful valley, whose sides are clothed with innu- 
merous boughs, the little mansion of the bard peeps out 
coquettishly, as if too timid for display, yet unwilling 
to be concealed. There, in the calm evening of a 
various life, he may brood over its short and fallacious 
pleasures; there, a repentant proselyte to nature, he 
may do her homage in her hallowed recesses—a meet 
penance for one, who, in the delirium of his heart, 
derided her worship, preferring, to her embowering 
shades and o’erarching groves, “ the shady side of Pall 
Mall, and the grove of London chimneys.”* There he 
may feel at last how well he has exchanged the roar of 
the midnight song for the mild whispers of the breeze, 
and the madrigal of the running brooks. There he 
may sigh for having once renounced them, and hope to 
be forgiven ! 

Who has not admired the lyric effusions of Charles 
Morris? But to judge of their effect, you should have 
heard him sing them at the Beef-Steaks. Voice, science, 
are of course out of the question; for these you would 
have had soul, expression, manner. To say that those 
songs are deficient in the higher graces of poetry is 
hypercritical nonsense. To maintain that they have 
neither the terseness, nor the chaste simplicity of Ana¬ 
creon, is pedantry, of which a school-boy would be 
ashamed. But where will you find such after-dinner 


* See the Town and Country Life; one of his earliest songs. 





34 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


songs ? They have all a negligence, an ease (the clas¬ 
sical reader will call it uQetetx) which befits the social 
hour. They breathe the soul of conviviality; they 
cure all sadness, but despair; they make the poor man 
forget the lowliness of his fortunes, and the insolent 
contrast of upstart wealth to his own destitution ;—for 
to him who is corroded by the enduring pang, the pang 
that never dies—a few minutes of oblivion are an age 
of enjoyment. Do not, I pray you, forget the spirit 
and briskness of the little anacreontic— 

v ' ' \ 

When the fancy-stirring bowl 
Wakes the soul to pleasure, 

&c. &c. &c. 


But do you remember his exquisite reasons for filling 
the glass again ? That song tells you how much the 
logic of the table transcends the logic of the schools; 
it shows you how demonstratively the senses reason, 
how eloquently they plead their own cause. 

There reigns in the Beef-Steaks, as I have hinted 
already, a brotherhood, a sentiment of equality. How 
you would laugh to see the junior member emerging 
from the cellar, with half a dozen bottles in a basket! 
I have seen Brougham employed in this honourable 
diplomacy, and executing it with the correctness of a 
butler. The Duke of Leinster, in his turn, took the 
same duty. With regard to Brougham, at first sight 
you would not set him down as having a natural and 
prompt alacrity for the style of humour that prevails 
amongst us. But Brougham is an excellent member, 
and it is a remarkable instance of the peculiar influ¬ 
ences of this peculiar Society on the human character. 
We took him just as the schools of philosophy, the bar, 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


35 


the senate had made him. Literary, forensic, and par¬ 
liamentary habits are most intractable materials, you 
will say, to make a member of the Beef-Steaks. Yet 
no man has imbibed more of its spirit, and he enters into 
its occasional gladiatorship with the greatest glee. 

I believe him to be a most sincere, benevolent being. 
As a public man, he is sometimes betrayed into acri¬ 
mony ; but it is when he is thwarted by mean impedi¬ 
ments, or teased with petty grovelling exceptions. But 
who would fetter by precise rules the generous impulses 
of our nature ? or bind over a noble enthusiasm to its 
good behaviour ? Brougham is unquestionably a great 
man. How sublime was his attitude the other night, 
how lofty and commanding his elevation, when he re¬ 
buked Hume for putting his pounds, shillings, and pence, 
into the scale against the honour and faith of a nation, 
whose honour and faith have ever been the bulwarks 
of her greatness: and well did that rebuke illustrate 
the immeasurable distance between the moral propor¬ 
tions of an enlarged policy, and the paltry calculations 
of vulgar arithmetic. Nor shall I ever forget (it is 
now many years since) the manly reply he made to 
Lord Ellenborough, who had animadverted coarsely 
upon his zeal in behalf of a defendant convicted of 
having published a book reflecting on Christianity. 
41 My lord,” said Brougham, “ why am I thus identified 
with the opinions of my client ? I appear here as an 
English advocate, with the privileges and the responsi¬ 
bility of that office; and no man shall call in question 
either my principles, or my conduct, in the discharge 
of it. It is not, assuredly, to those only who clamour 
out their faith from high places, that credit will be 
given for the sincerity of their professions.” From 



36 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


this time, the tone of that overbearing judge was con¬ 
siderably moderated towards Brougham, and the bar in 
general. 

Brougham, as Johnson said of Dr. John Campbell, 
has grazed over the whole common of literature. Is it 
not strange, that the busy pursuits of his busy profession 
should allow him time for the cultivation of studies, 
some of which are not germane, but many quite ad¬ 
verse to it? In a letter written by Sir Thomas Bodley 
to Lord Bacon,* when at the bar, there is a passage, 
which has often struck me as being applicable to 
Brougham. “ I cannot choose but wonder, that, your 
expense of time considered in your public profession, 
which hath, in a manner, no acquaintance with scholar¬ 
ship or learning, you should have culled out the quint¬ 
essence, and sucked up the sap of the chiefest kinds of 
learning.” A Zoi'lus, perhaps, would point out a pecu¬ 
liar fault in Brougham’s eloquence; namely, that he 
does not always know where to stop—that he overlooks 
the precise point, where a step too much is worse than 
falling off—that delicate shadowy line at which degene¬ 
racy begins. He certainly is too redundant, not to 
say tedious ; but he never enters into a debate without 
well knowing what it is about. He is not what they 
call a party man ;—nor is it possible to make a party 
man of him. He is too ethereal a spirit to do the 
biddings of a party; too high-minded to adopt their 
animosities, or to follow their idolatries. 

But the Beef-Steaks.—Whose is that pleasing, self- 
pleased countenance, on which there sleeps a serenity 
. like that of the foremost of the crowd, who are listening 


* Bacon’s Letters—Cabala. 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


37 


to St. Paul in one of the fine cartoons of Raphael ? In 
spite, however, of a dead calm of feature, the tongue 
of that worthy individual never knows repose. It has 
being going on at the same untired pace for more than 
an hour. It is Jack Richards, a well known presbyter 
of the Club; and unless at those seasons when the “ fell 
serjeant,” the gout, has arrested him, he has never ab¬ 
sented himself from its board. He is our recorder, and 
there is nothing in comedy equal to his passing sentence 
on those who have offended against the rules and 
observances of the Society. Having put on Garrick’s 
hat, he proceeds to inflict a long wordy harangue upon 
the culprit, who endeavours most unavailingly to stop 
him. Nor is it possible to see when he means to stop. 
His admonition 

w Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on.” 

But it is the imperturbable gravity with which Jack 
performs his office, and the fruitless writhings of the 
luckless being on whom the shower of his rhetoric is 
discharged, that constitutes the amusement of the scene. 

There is no subject upon which Jack’s exuberance 
of talk fails him. Nor do I think that he requires a 
subject at all. It is like a stage coach, that rattles on 
empty or full. Yet, Jack is far from being a nuisance. 
When you grow accustomed to his garrulity, it becomes 
like one of those noises in your vicinage, that of a mill, 
for instance, to which you become reconciled, because 
you know that you cannot stop it. Nor is it a necessary 
condition on your part, that you should attend to him. 
Allow him to talk, and nothing more is implied in the 
contract. 

But, as to mere quantity, I never before witnessed 
vol. ii. — 4 


38 THE CLUBS OF LONDON, 

loquacity that equalled it. Jedediah Buxton, who* 
reckoned all the lines spoken by Garrick in Hamlet, 
then dividing them into words, and then again into 
syllables and letters, would have given up Jack in des¬ 
pair. As to the French philosopher, who held that our 
existence is shortened by every word we articulate— 
had that theory been a sound one, Jack would never 
have arrived at manhood. A stage in which I was 
travelling took him up at his country residence, and it 
was beyond measure diverting to see the unavailing 
efforts of the other passengers to get in a word ; and the 
coachman told me, that, upon one occasion, when Jack 
was the only inside passenger, he happened to open the 
door, and found him talking at his accustomed rate. 
But all this is no derogation from his numerous good 
qualities; nor does a sounder understanding exist. 
Could you but get at the deliberate suffrage of that un¬ 
derstanding, through the mazy surplusage of his words, 
it would not mislead you in any matter, however it 
might concern your weal or your wo. Nor in that stream 
of talk was there ever mingled one drop of malignity, 
nor of unkind censure upon the erring or unhappy. He 
would as soon adulterate his glass of port wine with 
water, as dash that honest, though incessant prattle, 
with one malevolent or ungenerous remark. 

Do you like song, pure, simple song, as it swells forth 
from its English fountain, unmixed with foreign and 
fantastic refinements ? William Linley will charm you 
at the Beef-Steaks.* He despises (perhaps too much) 

* The following elegant sonnet was addressed to Linley, by one, 
who described as a poet what he felt as a man. It was written 
on hearing him sing one of Purcell’s anthems. 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


39 


the modern Italian school; he is indignantly impatient 
of the frivolous English compositions of the present day. 

“-the light airs, and re-collected terms 

Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.” 

A melody of Arne’s, or of Jackson’s of Exeter, or a 
simple air of his father’s, he executes to admiration; 
and, amidst all the revolutions and vicissitudes of the 
art, he has been found faithful to the characteristic 
chastity of the style of singing peculiar to the Linley 
family. I had never the good fortune to hear his sister, 
Mrs. Sheridan; but I can form some judgment of the 
effect of her voice and manner upon the heart (and 
music is but a silly thing when it does not reach the 
heart) by its effect upon an old and enthusiastic votary 
of music, who assured me, that when he heard her 
many years ago sing the divine air, “ 1 know that my 
Redeemer liveth,” he was ready to exclaim in the rap¬ 
turous language of Isaac Walton upon the nightingale— 
“ Lord, Lord, what music hast thou not reserved for 

TO WILLIAM LINLEY, ESQ. 

While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 

And I have many friends who hold me dear, 

Linley ! methinks, I would not often hear 
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress, 

For which my miserable brethren weep ! 

But should uncomforted misfortune steep 
My daily bread in tears and bitterness; 

And if at death’s dread moment I should lie 
With no beloved face at my bed-side, 

To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 

Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, 
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, 

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! 



40 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


thy saints in heaven, when thou hast indulged such 
sounds to bad men on earth !” 

Nature, it is true, has denied to our brother Linley 
what is called a fine voice; and what little organ she 
allowed him, perhaps, is not much the better for port 
wine and late nights. Still, however, you will forget 
his deficiencies of power, in the spirit and taste of his 
manner. I know of no greater treat than one of his 
little ballads, when he is in the humour to sing it, for 
he is not over-compliant in this respect; and, like the 
musician in Horace, is too apt to practise the “ nunquam 
rogatus .” 

But it is in the bundle of habits and peculiarities 
that constitute Will Linley, and distinguish him from 
his species, or rather make him a species by himself, 
that any thing like an exact portraiture of him is to be 
traced; and to these, no description can do justice. 
Our Club abounds with characters, but they have all 
some affinity with the ordinary race of mankind. Will 
is a character much more emphatically; for nothing 
that savours of this nether world can be said to belong 
to him. Yet his oddities, that would so deform and 
disfigure any other being, as to drive him from the pale 
of social life, sit with so exact a consentaneousness 
upon himself, that they make him one of the pleasant¬ 
est and most interesting persons in it; hut if, by any 
training or discipline, you could divest him of them, he 
would become instantly, of all bipeds, the most vapid 
and unmeaning. 

He entered the world with a large ready-made as¬ 
sortment of prejudices; and he has retained them all 
to the present hour. His notions are a part of his 
family, and he clings to them with the warmth of an 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


41 


habitual and long-indulged affection. Some of them 
are grotesque and absurd in the highest degree; they 
are, for that reason, the dearer to him. Thus he has 
grown old, not from experience, but years; for with 
regard to experience in the forms, the usages, the habi¬ 
tudes of life, could he survive the lapse of a century, 
he would still retain the simplicity of youth. As for 
the process by which he arrived at his opinions, that is 
not very apparent. There, however, they are—fixed 
and rivetted in his brain, and no ratiocination can reach 
—no refutation shake them. It is quite amusing to 
remark with what an amiable and anile tenderness he 
fondles them, without the slightest argument in their 
defence; but, above all, the perfect composure with 
which he hears them confuted every day, conceding 
every time the whole series of propositions, by which 
the confutation is achieved; and then, when his oppo¬ 
nent has done talking, calmly asserting his right to 
remain in the same opinion as before. 

Of the same immoveable kind, is his opinion on the 
stale subject of Catholic emancipation. No force of 
argument can loosen its grasp. It sits secure amidst 
the superannuated garrison of his other notions, and 
entrenched within the same impenetrable fortresses. 
Not that he argues when he is vanquished. He never 
argues, and therefore is never vanquished. 1 was 
highly entertained one day, when a warm advocate for 
the Catholic cause thought that he was overthrowing, 
by a course of Socratic interrogation, the decided un¬ 
qualified negative of honest Will upon the claims of 
that large portion of the community; and calculating 
that reasoning would have the same operation upon his, 
as upon the general run of human understandings. 


42 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


“ I think I can convince you,” said he to Linley, w if 
you are candid.” 

“ I am candid,” rejoined the other, “ but not to be 
convinced.” 

“ I will begin then. Will you not allow, that in all 
civil communities, each individual has a right to wor¬ 
ship his Creator in the mode he thinks best, if, in so 
doing, he does not disturb the peace and order of 
society ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ If, then, the Catholics claim that very right, and 
their tenets and worship are by no means injurious to 
the public tranquillity, ought the civil magistrate to 
punish them by a penal exclusion from the rights and 
immunities which are enjoyed by others ?” 

“ Oh ! no—my good fellow—certainly not.” 

“ Well, then—is there any thing in their holding 
transubstantiation, or in kneeling to saints, or in making 
confessions, or in considering an old man, or rather an 
old woman at Rome, as the head of their church ; and 
permitting that old woman to give orders, and to make 
regulations about that church : is there any thing in all 
this that can promote rebellion against the laws, or dis¬ 
obedience to the authority of the state ?” 

“ Oh ! by no means. Let them believe what they 
like.” 

“ Perhaps, then, you will admit, that to punish them 
for their belief or their worship, is not likely to make 
them better or more obedient subjects, nor the best 
way to make them relinquish them; but, on the con¬ 
trary, to render them troublesome enthusiasts, or tur¬ 
bulent for the recovery of what they conceive to be 
unjustly withheld from them ?” 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


43 


u I admit all that,” exclaimed Linley. 

u Then do you not think,” continued the other, “ that 
if there is a decided majority of these enthusiasts and 
4 troublesome customers’ in Ireland, who are rendered 
so by the penal laws, which they ask you to remove, 
that this valuable member of our empire is now, or 
may be, soon endangered ?” 

44 Assuredly.” 

44 Why, then, would it not be better to give them 
what they want, and render them insignificant and 
harmless (as all sects become when you let them alone) 
rather, than by keeping open their discords, and nur¬ 
turing their animosities, make them, by your policy, 
the bad subjects, which you admit that their religious 
notions, or modes of worship, have no tendency to 
make them ?” 

44 Why, yes, I admit all that; but I must still keep to 
my opinion—that Catholic emancipation would over¬ 
turn church, state, and every thing.” 

There was something truly comic in the disappoint¬ 
ment of this ingenious disputant, when he found the 
most willing admission of all his premises, without the 
slightest inclination to concur in his conclusion; and 
that he had thrown away so much good logic upon an 
intellect that never submitted to its jurisdiction, and 
suffered no argument to come within the precincts of 
its preconceptions. The reasoner, however, was one 
who loved humour; and having stared a few seconds 
at his invincible antagonist, he became instantly alive 
to the farce, and burst into a shout of laughter. 

Linley imparted to Mr. Thomas Moore some in¬ 
teresting materials for the work which, under the title 
of a Life of Sheridan, is such a motley patchwork of 


44 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


metaphor, simile, and quotation from Ovid’s Metamor¬ 
phoses, that the slender streak of biography that inter¬ 
sects its gaudy and enamelled pages, is hardly discern¬ 
ible. When the editor first waited upon Will, with a 
solicitation for all the information he could supply re¬ 
specting his brother-in-law, the interview did not pro¬ 
mise a fruitful supply of anecdote. Our worthy friend's 
memory is proverbially treacherous, and it generally 
contrives to break down with the incident or joke at 
the most critical moment. It fortuned so on this occa¬ 
sion. “ Ah! Mr. Moore,” said he, as soon as the pur¬ 
pose of the visit was opened, “ I am exceedingly happy 
to find that you have undertaken the task of writing 
the life of my brother-in-law, Mr. Sheridan. I say my 
brother-in-law,” (Will is minutely circumstantial in 
narration,) “ for you know that he married my sister.” 
“ I comprehend you perfectly,” said the other. u Oh ! 
Mr. Moore, I must first tell you an admirable epigram 
written by Sheridan, soon after his marriage, whilst it 
is fresh in my recollection. It is so poignant, and so 
witty, that I would not have you omit it on any ac¬ 
count.” “ Now, then, let me have it,” exclaimed the 
biographer, taking out his note-book. “ I’ll give it you 
presently, Mr. Moore; but I must first mention the cir¬ 
cumstance in which it originated, that you may enter 
completely into its spirit. Why, you must know, Mr. 
Moore, that Mr. Sheridan, just after his marriage, was 
determined to take a trip to the continent with his wife, 
my sister. For this purpose, they took a small vessel 
at Harwich, which was bound to Rotterdam. It was 
the Minerva, Captain Brown—stop, stop, it was the 
Venus, Captain Thompson—or, I think, it was the 
Eliza, Captain”-. 



THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


45 


“ It does not matter, Mr. Linley, what the ship was, 
or who commanded her. Pray, let’s have the epigram.” 

“ You shall have it presently, Mr. Moore ; hut I have 
not yet come to it. Well, sir, this Captain Brown of 
the Minerva, or Captain Thompson of the Venus, was 
a surly, ill-behaved fellow ; and used Mr. Sheridan and 
my sister very shamefully. They were detained by 
contrary winds, and there was not a morsel to eat or 
drink on board. So, sir, Sheridan was determined that 
the fellow should suffer for it;—so he wrote an epigram 
upon him, which is the severest thing 1 ever saw; it 
did for him completely.” 

“ Aye,” said Moore, who was beginning to be impa¬ 
tient—“now for the epigram.” 

“ To be sure,” continued Linley, “ it was the hap¬ 
piest hit that ever was—it did not spare the fellow, I 
assure you.” 

Here a pause ensued, during which the reciter of the 
epigram was biting his lips in an apparent agony to re¬ 
cover it. “ The epigram, the epigram, Mr. Moore— 
why—by G—, I have forgot the epigram !” This anec¬ 
dote found its way to the Beef-Steaks, and after dinner 
there was a universal vociferation for the epigram, to 
the no small vexation of our worthy brother. 

A better heart never beat than that of this excellent 
creature, of which his conduct to his unfortunate 
friend, Leftley, affords abundant proof. Poor Charles 
Leftley is, probably, by this time forgotten, except by 
the few who witnessed his extraordinary talents, and 
knew his modest and unobtrusive virtues. That retir¬ 
ing unostentatious kind of genius, which, though not 
unconscious of its powers, retires from the vulgar gaze, 
shrinking, like the tenderest of plants, whether it is 


46 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


wooed by the hot embrace of the sun, or chilled by 
“ the rude breath of the north,” was not unmarked of 
many who had watched its first timid buddings, and 
joyed over its expanding ripeness. But the early pro¬ 
mise of that ill-fated youth, and the keen blast of 
adversity that crushed it, is a common but a sad story. 
He was one of that numerous but luckless race, whose 
hopes of ingenuous fame are high and ardent, and 
whose fancy is wont to revel amidst the bright, though 
fallacious, visions that are incident to a strong poetic 
temperament, intensely excited. But neither genius, 
nor letters, brought him the few humble distinctions 
which he merited; nor, after a season, the bread that 
nature must not be denied. With a constitution habit¬ 
ually delicate, and sinking under disappointment (for 
the iron had entered his soul), he attended the long 
midnight debates of Parliament as a reporter; and 
gave, in that capacity, the fullest satisfaction to his em¬ 
ployers. Under these labours, aggravated by the unseen 
but unintermitted anxieties of his mind, his constitution 
sank rapidly ; and our honest-hearted friend, Linley, 
rescued him, whilst he was on his death-bed, from the 
ruffians of the law, whom a low attorney had let loose 
upon him at that awful moment when all consciousness 
had nearly left him, and his life stood on his lips as if 
ready to depart. 

It was only within a small circle that the poetical 
talents of Charles Leftley were known or appreciated. 
The laboured mediocrity, the tinsel polished into glare, 
which, since his time, have been allowed to pass for 
poetry, and to usurp its rewards, placed by the side of 
his severe and chastened taste, and his simple but cap¬ 
tivating imagery, glowing alike with the warmth of his 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


47 


heart, and of his imagination, would have faded into 
nothingness. I think Southey, who is never slow to 
discern, nor reluctant to acknowledge all kinds of con¬ 
temporary merit, was the first who directed the public 
attention to poor Leftley’s sonnets, as master-pieces in 
their kind. Alas ! it was 44 a thankless muse that he 
meditated. 11 Fortunately, he died before the existing 
school of poetry had arisen (if the sacred name of 
poetry is to be so prostituted), before praise and emolu¬ 
ment had been showered down on the * * * * * * 
and the hoc genus omne, whose theory it is that nothing 
is poetical that does not recede from common sense in 
thought or perspicuity in expression, or the bitterness 
of his own disappointment would have been in no 
slight degree sharpened by the misdirected patronage 
of compositions so revolting to a mind that is truly and 
essentially poetic. 

The little life of Charles Leftley was 44 rounded by a 
dreambut it was a dream into which the whole vi¬ 
tality, the very identity of a youthful poet, becomes 
transfused. He loved ; and in his decaying health to 
have told him that his passion was not returned, would 
have at once snapped the filmy thread on which his 
existence hung: it was returned—not, indeed, with 
love, which comes at no one’s bidding, yet with all that 
a kind and compassionate nature could yield in its place 
—by pity, which is generally supposed (perhaps erro¬ 
neously) to be akin to it. He was willing to be de¬ 
ceived ; and he believed that a warmer feeling inspired 
it—a feeling that was not divided with others, but 
glowed in the gentlest of female bosoms for himself 
alone. Who could find it in his heart to dislodge this 
cherished idea—to refute this hallowed creed of his 


48 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


imagination ? But despondence, and even despair, had 
also their turns; moments came upon him when he 
felt that, however agonizing it was to doubt, it was 
folly to hope ; and he would sit whole hours, benighted 
in the soul’s gloom, brooding over the sad accidents of 
sickness, neglect, obscurity, and indigence, that had so 
cruelly darkened his prospects, and crossed his early 
and his latest aspirations. Disease, therefore, upon 
feelings thus attuned, and a frame so enervated, made 
but short work of it. I must not forget to mention that 
the vision of Leftley’s heart and fancy was his friend 
Linley’s sister; a miniature resemblance of Mrs. Sheri¬ 
dan, endued with many of her graces, and, in musical 
accomplishments, scarcely inferior to that highly-gifted 
woman. This lady afterwards made a matter-of-fact 
match of it with a most unpoetical personage, a Mr. 
Ward; but she soon followed, and almost as prema¬ 
turely, the early fate of the female branch of her family. 

Linley collected, with a pious care for his poor 
friend’s memory, his scattered poetical fragments, and 
published them in a volume, to which he prefixed a 
short biographical notice. But he did not shine as an 
editor, having inserted in the book as many of his own 
pieces as of Leftley’s ; or as a wag, who was mention¬ 
ing the circumstance at the Beef-Steaks, expressed it, 
“ he had packed up his own clothes in his friend’s port¬ 
manteau.” But Will, as a biographer, laid himself 
quite prostrate to the attacks of the Club; for in that 
little composition, not a few of those solecisms had 
escaped him, to which unpractised writers are always 
liable, and these were carefully picked up by some 
facetious critic for a little mirth at his expense. The 
luckless sentences which his merciless censor hauled 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


49 


into notice ran thus : 44 Charles Leftley was the eldest 
son of his father ;”—a truth, for the correctness of which 
Linley warmly pledged himself. The same playful 
persecutor of Bill’s authorship found also, or pretended 
to find (for the rogue read it all from the book) the fol¬ 
lowing Johnsonian passage respecting Leftley’s birth: 
44 His father was a traitor, and his mother a sempstress ; 
an union, which, if not first suggested, was probably 
accelerated by the mutual sympathies of a congenial 
occupation.” This pompous sentence excited consider¬ 
able mirth, and the sober truism contained in the fol¬ 
lowing passage, produced a still greater sensation. 44 It 
is a well known fact that novelty itself, by frequent 
repetition , loses much of its attraction.” 

This, however, was nothing to the amusement fur¬ 
nished by a novel in three volumes, which poor Linley 
had been ill-advised enough to publish, and for which 
Sir Richard Phillips gave him the immense honorarium 
of thirty pounds. It was called Ralph Reybridge. 
The schooling he received at the Beef-Steaks for this 
production had a most salutary effect; for I am per¬ 
suaded that otherwise he would have brought out a 
whole progeny of novels. But Will, when the agony 
of wounded authorship was over, used to exclaim to 
his tormentors— 

This is no flattery; these are counsellors 
That feelingly persuade me what I am. 

* ‘ • . 

The admonition, though useful, was severely admin¬ 
istered. For the same Zoi'lus brought a volume of the 
work in his pocket, and read a passage of it aloud. 
This was an ungentle, and almost unkind, discipline. 
Linley, poor soul, in the innocence of his character, 

VOL. II.— 5 


50 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON". 


imagined that he could paint the world; he, to whom 
it was all a terra incognita ; he, to whom the wiles and 
tortuous labyrinths of man’s heart were as familiar as 
to the infant who has just peeped into it! It could not, 
therefore, he supposed, that a mind, so untutored in 
human life, should produce interesting and engaging 
portraitures of it; and certain it is, that when the pro¬ 
duction made its appearance, it was found to consist of 
those threadbare occurrences, and common-place senti¬ 
ments, a specimen of which, the merciless wight who 
brought the book, read to the Club as follows. It 
describes a peregrination of the hero, and forms part of 
a chapter entitled 


THE RECOGNITION. 

44 Our hero, who had now walked eighteen miles, ar¬ 
rived, hungry and exhausted, at a neat-looking inn. 
Much as his thoughts were engrossed by the idea of 
his charming Amelia, and though the tenderness of the 
parting scene still occupied his memory ; yet exercise 
and fatigue produced their usual effects on a constitu¬ 
tion naturally robust, and he was visited with the crav¬ 
ings of a violent appetite. As he approached the 
larder, his eyes sent forth a glance of eager inquiry as 
to its contents, and he asked the landlady, in a tone of 
impatience, what she had for his supper. The landlady, 
a fat buxom widow of forty, with a complacent smile, 
in which pity for the young pedestrian (for she read 
upon his countenance that some secret sorrow’ was 
preying on his heart) had a considerable share, gave 
the usual reply, 4 Beef-steaks, mutton chops, and veal 
cutlets.’ The contrariety of temptations acting with 
nearly equal force, at first perplexed our hero; but his 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


51 


choice was soon determined by the inviting appearance 
of the veal cutlet, and a piece of cold bacon, its natural 
ally, that lay beside it. 

“ The repast was soon served up to him, with a pint 
of tolerable port, which would have reconciled him to 
homelier fare than that before him; for, under all the 
vicissitudes of his fate, and the bitterest disappointment 
of his hopes, port wine never failed to administer a 
balm to his feelings. But what was Ralph’s astonish¬ 
ment at observing the waiter give an involuntary start 
as he put it on the table ? Our hero in his turn started 
also; and, looking the waiter more observantly in the 
face, every trait of which had been long familiar to 
him, exclaimed with the greatest emotion— 1 Eh—Eh— 
it cannot be—yes, it must be—it is Rumbsby.’ 

“ 4 Yes, Reybridge, it is Rumbsby,’ returned the 
waiter, and threw himself into our hero’s arms. 4 It is 
your own Rumbsby!’ ” 

This most singular recognition excited considerable 
mirth. Whether it was a bona fide reading from the 
book, or a malicious interpretation to raise a laugh 
against the novel writer, I cannot exactly determine; 
but that a scene of this kind actually occurs in the 
work, is, I think, evident from an oil-painting in the 
exhibition of that year, marked in the catalogue thus:— 
“ Ralph Reybridge recognizing his friend Rumbsby in 
the disguise of a waiter, at the Falcon Inn. From the 
novel of Ralph Reybridge.” So that it appears to have 
been a favourite scene of the author’s. 

Yet, when we recollect the snares that vanity is for 
ever throwing about our paths to entangle us, who 
could be so cold-blooded as to deride or sneer at this 
worthy creature, for a slight miscalculation of his 


52 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


powers ? The thing itself is common, and the failing a 
venial one ; it is a misallied branch of that noble spirit, 
that spurs us on to the great enterprises of the intellect 
and the imagination; and it would be a dangerous, as 
well as ungenerous policy, to frown down the innocent, 
though mistaken predilections, we sometimes entertain 
for the very productions, to which our powers are the 
most incompetent. It is, however, justice fairly due to 
Linley, and to the Sublime Society itself, to remark, 
that on these occasions, he never betrayed the irritable 
sulkiness of a roasted author, but took the pleasantries 
that played around him with the most imperturbable 
good humour; nay, I am quite convinced, that the plati¬ 
tudes of his novel were placed before him in so ridicu¬ 
lous a light, that he himself most heartily concurred in 
the laugh they excited. Such is the spirit of this 
admirable Club—the very martyr of the joke becomes 
its auxiliary. 

I cannot find that Linley furnished Moore, for his Life 
of Sheridan, with any materials but the common-place 
books, in which his brother-in-law was occasionally 
wont to deposit his dramatic sketches, or to bottle up 
the jokes he had collected for future use, and which he 
had either imagined himself, or heard from any one 
else. But Linley, I think, might have scraped up many 
facetious pleasantries of Sheridan, many of which were 
deeply engraved in his recollection, because they had 
been practised upon himself, or upon his brother Hozy 
(as Sheridan called him), who was an unfailing butt 
when he was disposed to amuse himself with a practi¬ 
cal jest. On one occasion, the jest was much too 
practical, if, as Sheridan afterwards gave out, it was 
intended for a jest, which I am much disposed to doubt 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


53 


Poor Linley, many years ago, had written a musical 
farce, in two acts, called the Pavilion, which was acted 
at Drury Lane, and had set the songs to some exquisite 
music of his own composition, which was highly and 
justly admired. But not being much experienced in 
dramatic writing, and naturally solicitous for his first 
attempt in that department, he placed it in Sheridan’s 
hands, that the dialogue might receive a few touches 
from so great a master. Sheridan undertook the task 
with his usual good-nature, which, as every one knows, 
was inexhaustible in all kinds of promise. The piece 
was cast—the performers were satisfied with their 
parts—and the night fixed for its representation; but 
the manuscript still slumbered upon Sheridan’s table, 
and it was only by incessant importunities that the 
author could recover it in time for a rehearsal. But it 
was returned with no correction or alteration whatever, 
save the slight Addition of a very middling joke upon 
the lover’s valet, who, it seems, was subject to perpetual 
fits of absence, did every thing in a violent hurry, and 
united the incompatible offices of writing love-verses 
for his master, and getting every thing ready that apper¬ 
tained to his toilette. This addition Linley could not 
very well reject, though it was “ none of the newest,” 
for the idea, such as it was, had been worn threadbare 
by Congreve and Cibber. In answer to his master’s 
reproof of his negligence, the fellow makes a remon¬ 
strance upon the irksome and incongruous duties that 
were cast upon him. 

“ There,” says he, “ had I not fifty verses to write for 
you upon your finding Miss Louisa Dangle’s garter? Had 
I not at the same time your coat to brush, your boots 
to polish, your hair to dress, and to carry the poetry, 
5 * 


54 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON* 


with the garter enclosed, to Miss Dangle’s maid—-and 
was not all this to be done in a single hour?” 

His master replies: “Yes, you blockhead, and you 
marred the whole by your cursed confusion of head, 
and precipitancy of action; for you ran in a violent 
bustle to Miss Dangle, burglariously entered her dress¬ 
ing-room, and brushed her riding-habit vi et armis — 
then curled her hair by sheer force with cold curling- 
irons;—and, after all, inscribed the verses to me, and 
enclosed the garter in the envelope.” 

This, which is certainly not in the best antithetic 
style of Sheridan’s comedy, was, by the critics in the 
pit, who never dreamed that Sheridan had furnished it, 
considered as a miserable attempt on the part of the 
author to mimic the manner of that great comic writer, 
and probably conduced much to the failure of the piece. 
When Sheridan was told of the mischief which his slight 
contribution had effected, he replied with infinite cool¬ 
ness, “ ’Tis the very thing I wished: the farce was so 
replete with absurdities, that I thought there was no 
harm in hazarding one absurdity more. Bill Linley 
has a good situation in the Company’s service—why 

does he not go back to India? If his d-d farce had 

succeeded, we should have had him here for the rest of 
his life, scratching his head in a garret, or twiddling his 
thumbs in the green-room, instead of saving rupees 
enough to come back, and loll in his carriage.” 

In all probability, Sheridan, whose dramatic reading 
(limited as his range of reading had been in other 
branches of literature) had met with something resem¬ 
bling this epigrammatic description of the blunders of a 
lacquey, and clapped it into his dramatic note-book, 
where it was to lie snugly till an occasion offered for 



THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


55 


making use of it, when it was to receive the necessary 
polish, and to be brightened into wit. In an indolent 
mood, however, he probably transferred it into Linley’s 
farce, without giving himself any trouble in improving 
it; for he had, as Moore has justly remarked, a most 
astonishing talent of working up the raw material of 
inferior intellects into a manufacture not unworthy of 
his own. His biographer has traced many of his hap¬ 
piest sallies in the House of Commons to very ordinary 
archetypes. I would undertake to assert, that a very 
great part of the most striking passages in his speeches 
might be pursued to sources whence it would hardly be 
suspected that he had condescended to borrow, what 
his genius enabled him afterwards to repay so usuriously. 
One instance of this, which Moore has overlooked, is 
observable in that part of his celebrated speech on the 
trial of Hastings, where he describes the devastation of 
the province of Oude—a passage that has been highly 
extolled for its eloquence. 

“ If we could suppose a person to have come sud¬ 
denly into the country, unacquainted with the circum¬ 
stances that had passed since the days of Sujah U1 
Dowlah, he would naturally ask—What cruel hand had 
wrought this wide desolation ?—What barbarian foe had 
invaded the once smiling province, ravaged its fields, 
and depopulated its villages ?—He would ask, what dis¬ 
puted succession, what military rage, what civil phrenzy, 
had induced the inhabitants to rise in savage hostility 
to the commands of Providence, and the works of man? 
He would ask what religious zeal, what unbridled 
fanaticism, had aggravated the black despair, and licen¬ 
tious havoc of war? 11 

It will be perceived that he had consulted Sir John 


56 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


Denham’s poem called Cowper’s Hill, and found there 
the first rude sketch of that thought, which he after¬ 
wards so finely amplified in the lines, where the poet 
beautifully deplores the ruin and spoliation of the reli¬ 
gious houses by Henry the Eighth. 

“Who sees these dismal heaps, but would demand 
What barbarous invader sacked the land ? 

But when he hears, no Goth, no Turk did bring 
This desolation, but a Christian king,” &c. &c. 

The two first lines seem to have suggested the sentence 
of the speech which I have quoted; and the next coup ¬ 
let to have supplied the passage immediately following: 
“ But when he was told, that it was not foreign barba¬ 
rism that had spread so wide a calamity;—that no dis¬ 
puted succession had deluged the land with blood; 
that it was not religious fury that had lighted up the 
flames of war;—but the protecting hand ol the British 
government,” &c. &c. 

We must return, however, to the Beef-Steaks.—And 
it were unkind to pass by in our enumeration of its 
worthies, our excellent brother, Dick Wilson, whose 
volcanic complexion has for many years been assuming 
deeper and deeper tints of carnation over the port wine 
of the Society. Dick is a wealthy solicitor, of consid¬ 
erable eminence, and many years the secretary to the 
late Lord Chancellor Eldon. He is in many respects 
an original. It is true, that through every scene of his 
life, which has been a truly fortunate one, he has been 
sufficiently alive to his own interests; but he has not, 
on the other hand, been cold or insensible to others. 
His large stock of worldly wisdom, not more the gradual 
accumulations of long experience, and of acute observa- 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


57 


tion, than the result of a natural constitutional aptitude 
for thrift and advancement, is not sullenly expended 
upon himself, nor exclusively applied to the furtherance 
of his own schemes of emolument. He is a zealous, 
active friend. There are upon record many honour¬ 
able manifestations of his kind-heartedness. He is also 
hospitable in a certain way; that is, by inviting as many 
guests as his table will hold, and quite as many as his 
table will supply, or rather double that number, with¬ 
out paying the least attention to the classing and assort¬ 
ing his company. So that if you dine with Dick, you 
may think yourself peculiarly well off, if you are not 
elbowed by the identical person whom you would most 
wish at the devil; and the whole party would be egre- 
giously lucky, if their festivity was not completely 
overlaid by some wet blanket of above at least thirty 
years standing, who, for that long period, has been pro¬ 
scribed from all human association, and whose dinner 
at Dick’s comes in as a sort of parenthesis to the daily 
tenor of his existence. I remember dining with Dick 
during an election-week for Westminster, when party 
feelings ran very high. Before the company were fully 
assembled, the drawing-room door flew open for a 
gentleman, who, in the course of the morning’s debate 
on the hustings, had received a kick from a person who 
differed from him in politics; and a few minutes after, 
the very person was announced, by whom the assault 
had been made. This was a concordia discors of the most 
interesting kind, and was much more amusing to every 
body else than it was to the parties themselves, who 
found themselves, as may be easily imagined, in no 
very agreeable position to each other. Nay, so totally 
unmindful is Dick of all social incompatibilities, that a 


58 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON, 


lady, who, in consequence of certain matrimonial infeli¬ 
cities, had been separated from her husband, was seated 
one day at his table next to a chair apparently kept 
vacant for a guest, who had not yet made his appear¬ 
ance ; when, in the middle of dinner, the husband 
himself glided into the apartment, apologised for being 
late, and took the unoccupied seat by the side of his 
wife, to which Dick, in utter unconsciousness of the 
relative character of either, had motioned him. I 
have once or twice met Sir Francis Burdett at one of 
Dick’s hospitable parties in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The 
first time I had that good fortune, was about the period 
of Cobbett’s ungrateful and dishonest conduct towards 
that high-minded man, when every circle ran with indig¬ 
nation, and no one pronounced the very name of Cob- 
bett without disgust. I remarked, on this occasion, a 
chair kept for some person who was expected, and 
asked Arnold, who sate near me, if he knew for whom 
it was reserved. “ Can you have any doubt?” said 
Arnold: “ why, for Cobbett to be sure.” All this jumble 
arises from a sort of chaotic confusion in Dick’s 
memory, when he sends out his invitations, and from 
his picking up one half of his party, as he accidentally 
meets them in the street. Some of these contretemps 
have been so strange, and have given birth to such 
ludicrous scenes, as sometimes to throw upon Dick the 
suspicion of having got them up as regular jokes; but 
Dick may be honestly acquitted of all premeditated 
facetiousness. 

The almost unintermitted tide of good fortune, on 
which Dick has rode so prosperously through a pretty 
long life, has been already hinted. The bulk of his 
wealth, which is considerable, was derived from the 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


59 


late very eccentric Lord Chedworth, who became ac¬ 
quainted with him by mere accident, made him his 
steward, and solicitor, and at his decease the residuary 
legatee of all his personal property, having devised to a 
Mr. Pennie, of Great Yarmouth, the whole of his 
landed property. In consideration of the transfer of 
the residuary property, Pennie agreed to transfer the 
estates to Wilson ; an exchange in which Dick’s good 
genius appeared to desert him, for as it turned out, the 
residue was considerably more valuable than the land. 
Of this accidental acquaintance, which laid the founda¬ 
tion of Dick’s opulence, the origin was one of those 
whimsical fatalities with which fortune, in her sportive 
mood, occasionally amuses herself. Dick chanced to 
be one of a party that went down by water to Rich¬ 
mond; they carried with them their own provision, for 
the purpose of dining in the open air, and fixed upon a 
delightful spot beneath the canopy of a fine beech tree 
in Mr. Cambridge’s meadow for the place of their 
repast. It seemed to have been planned by nature for 
such a purpose ; but, to their great mortification, they 
observed a public notice affixed in legible characters 
to a tree near the water-side, prohibiting persons from 
dining in any part of the grounds : but the prohibition 
was thus expressed, “ all persons landing and dining 

HERE WILL BE PROSECUTED ACCORDING TO LAW.” This 

was too plain a hint to be misunderstood, and the party 
were about to turn their boat in search of some other 
nook, where they could spread their cloth without com¬ 
mitting a trespass ; when Dick assured them, that if 
they proceeded a few yards lower down, and then 
landed, their case would not come within the letter of 
the notice. All penal laws, reasoned Dick, are to be 


60 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON* 


construed strictly. A notice prohibing persons from 
sitting down to enjoy their dinner, is in the nature of a 
penal law, and to be construed strictly. We are 
forbidden to land and dine there; but if we land else¬ 
where, we may dine there ; for the word and has a 
copulative, not a disjunctive sense. This ingenious con¬ 
struction was instantly adopted; and Dick’s astute 
commentary strongly recommended him to Lord Ched- 
worth, as a person likely to be of great service to him 
in the management of his property, which turned out 
to be a very productive employment during the peer’s 
life, and terminated, as we have seen, in the magnificent 
bequest, which remunerated Dick’s zeal and activity at 
the close of it. The dispositions of this will were so 
extraordinary, as to suggest to his Lordship’s next of 
kin an application to the Court of Chancery to set it 
aside; and an issue to try the sanity of the testator was 
moved for. But the motion was negatived, after 
hearing a long series of affidavits sworn by persons of 
the highest respectability in the kingdom ; all of whom 
bore the strongest attestation, not only to the general 
soundness of Lord Chedworth’s intellect, but to the 
peculiar vigour and perspicuity of his reasoning powers, 
and to the great extent and variety of his attainments, 
particularly in criticism, and historical information of 
every kind. It is not to he denied, however, that many 
of the legacies were almost whimsically bequeathed. 
Pennie was totally unconnected with him, but as his 
apothecary; and the other dispositions savoured of an 
eccentric humour, contracted most probably from the 
early circumstances of his Lordship’s life. Lord Ched- 
worth had once been the victim of a most cruel and 
unjust accusation; and he had been advised to bring 







THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


61 


an action for civil damages against the calumniator, 
from whom, under Lord Mansfield’s direction to the 
jury, he recovered five hundred pounds. Having thus 
made his election, and waived by his appeal to a court 
of law, the course of proceeding which custom pre¬ 
scribes on such occasions, an attempt was made in 
certain quarters, and not without success, to deprive 
him of an honourable estimation among English gen¬ 
tlemen. It was, no doubt, in this circumstance that 
his long cherished habits of solitude and seclusion first 
originated; and they secluded him for the residue of 
his days from the sphere of society to which he natu¬ 
rally belonged. He inhabited for nearly that period a 
small house in the market-place at Ipswich, and lived 
upon so restricted a scale of expenditure, that his pro¬ 
perty rapidly accumulated. In this retirement, his 
favourite pursuits were seemingly inconsistent ones— 
the study of law—and of Shakspeare: and thus he was 
enabled to discharge the duties of a magistrate with the 
greatest accuracy, while his lighter hours were devoted 
to an employment fitted for an elegant mind—the illus¬ 
tration of the great poet of nature. Upon the various 
dramas of Shakspeare, his annotations were remarkable 
for clear sense and critical discrimination, and many of 
them have been since adopted into the voluminous 
edition by Reed. 

Probably it was his predilection for dramatic reading 
that made him an almost constant frequenter of the 
Ipswich theatre, and a munificent benefactor to the 
company that played there. I need not advert to the 
precarious remunerations earned even by the best per¬ 
formers on a provincial stage, or the perpetual con¬ 
flicts they have generally to carry on with the severest 

VOL. ii.—6 


62 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


ills of life. But picture to yourself, kind-hearted reader, 
the mixed emotions of surprise, joy, and gratitude, ex¬ 
perienced by three or four actors in that company, 
when they learned that their noble patron had benevo¬ 
lently remembered each in his will. To a Mr. Sey¬ 
mour, his Lordship left an annuity of £300, together 
with his manuscripts concerning Shakspeare; to a Mrs. 
Taylor nearly £3,000 in the three per cents.; and many 
smaller benefactions distributed among several inferior 
members of the corps. I know not how others would 
feel, and I care not; but for mine own part, I cannot 
imagine a luxury of the heart, an enjoyment of the 
intellect, more perfect, more true and unmixed, than 
that which must have been felt by this excellent, though 
singular being, as his hands traced the words, that in a 
few short months (for he died soon after he had written 
his will, which was all in his own hand-writing, saving 
the signatures of the witnesses) were to raise those vic¬ 
tims of the world’s contempt to a degree of ease, 
comfort, and independence, which they had never dared 
even to hope for in the wildest dreams of their fancy. 

Dick stood the fire of the Beef-Steaks with exemplary 
coolness and good humour. But he was sometimes 
unmercifully roasted. I remember his dining there 
after his return from a short trip to Paris, to which city 
he had gone immediately after the peace, to stare and 
gape, and make blunders in French with nearly all the 
rest of his countrymen. Arnold contrived, with great 
dexterity, to draw him into some Parisian details ; for 
Dick’s entire innocence of the French language, and 
his stubborn indocility to all foreign usages and cus¬ 
toms, rendered his descriptions quite original. On this 
occasion, he was singularly happy in enumerating the 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


63 


dishes at a French table, and in describing those which 
most pleased him, his memory was sure to betray its 
usual infelicity. He told us, for instance, that he 
thought the boulevards that were served up to him at a 
certain table d’hote, delicious. We could never satis¬ 
factorily trace, through the labyrinth of poor Dick’s 
misapprehensions, what was the specific dish which he 
meant to describe when he stumbled on this absurd 
misnomer; but we concluded that it was either a sim¬ 
ple bouilli, or a bouilli vert , that he wished to specify. 
Cobb called out, “ Dick, it was well they did not serve 
you up the Palais Royale for sauce to your boule¬ 
vards.” As for the ris de veau , which Dick thought 
the perfection of the French cookery, he was eternally 
extolling it; but he took care to give it a name more 
familiar to his English ear, though in reality a French 
one—for he called it a rendezvous. Being asked if he 
liked the French mode of cooking their partridges, 
(these questions were insidiously put for the sake of 
eliciting some amusing blunder,) he said, he could not 
bear them served up in shoes. Here we were all at 
fault for some minutes, till, at length, an Oedipus solved 
the enigma; for it was perdrix aux choux that Dick in¬ 
tended by that strange phrase. It was upon this occa¬ 
sion, that a gentleman who had dined with Dick at 
Very’s, assured us that in the course of the dinner they 
served up a roasted partridge, when Dick asked the 
waiter, or rather intended to ask him for a pheasant, 
alleging that he was tired of partridge; but, as usual, 
Dick mistook the word ( faisan ), and desired him to 
bring him a paysanne ! In short, there was no end to 
the slips into which his most ungallican organ betrayed 
him. 



64 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


The student of human nature would have but an im¬ 
perfect collection of anomalies without such a character 
as Dick. For it brings, as it were, into the same focus 
of observation, the most opposite contrarieties of mind 
and intellect which human nature supplies. Would 
you think giving credence to these anecdotes, and they 
are undeniably authentic, that with this predestinated, 
incorrigible habit of blundering, Dick is shrewd, cor¬ 
rect, and intelligent in all matters where those qualities 
may be most usefully called into play ? It is, however, 
not quite easy, it must be confessed, to reconcile with 
any tolerable degree of accuracy of judgment, an unac¬ 
countable aberration which Cobb used to relate of him, 
and which almost reminds one of some of the absurd¬ 
ities collected by Hierocles. Dick one day called at 
the Secretary’s office in the India House upon Cobb, 
who happened for a few minutes to be absent; but, on 
returning, who should he see but Dick, earnestly ex¬ 
ploring a map of Asia that was suspended on the wall, 
measuring the scale of it with a pair of compasses that 
he found on the table, and then applying them to a 
large tiger, which the artist had introduced to embellish 
it, as one of the animals of that country. “ By heavens, 
Cobb,” exclaimed Dick, “ I should never have believed 
it! Surely, it must be a mistake. Observe now—here,” 
pointing to the tiger, “here is a tiger that measures 
two-and-twenty leagues. By G—, it is scarcely 
credible!” 

Dick was a member of the celebrated Drury-Lane 
Committee, and took his share of that motley theatrical 
monarchy, which, if it answered no other purpose, at 
least served to illustrate the misrule and confusion that 
must always result, when any business is managed by per- 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


65 


sons who are utterly ignorant of it. It would, however, 
be but a sorry compliment to Dick, to say that he was 
as fit for a theatrical legislator as * * * * * * * * *, or 
any other person, who, taking measure of his own in¬ 
tellect, and arbitrarily putting upon it his own valua¬ 
tion, imagines that no appeal lies from the decisions of 
his taste and genius. Had Dick been the sole superin¬ 
tendent of that over-governed concern, I am sure that 
he would not have crammed down the public throat so 
much insipid stuff in the shape of new, or revived 
dramas as was brought out in that interval; much less 
the ridiculous, abominable imitations of humanity, that, 
during the period of that dramatic usurpation, crowded 
the stage in the shape of actors and actresses. 

From this animadversion, it behoves me to except 
Lord Byron, who, with every rightful claim to admonish 
or regulate, neither advised nor regulated. Yet no 
one was more sensitively alive to the assumptions of 
* * * * *, nor saw with a clearer discernment, the thin- 
spread layer of information, that covered as much intel¬ 
lectual inanity as falls to the lot of man, and much more 
than his usual allowance of conceit and assurance. 
“ All * * * * * goods,” said he, “ are brought to the 
shop-window. There is little or nothing in his ware¬ 
house, and what there is, is damaged.” 

Dick never interfered with theatrical business. The 
only time he ever exerted any influence in the green¬ 
room was, when he requested them to revive South¬ 
ern’s play of Oronooko, which had delighted him when 
a boy. This was not quite convenient, but they pro¬ 
mised Dick that it should be got up, and played on the 
Saturday following. On that night, however, they 
acted Othello, which had been already in preparation ; 


66 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


but Dick, who had not seen the bills, attended the per¬ 
formance of his favourite tragedy, and observing a 
black man on the stage, had no doubt of its being 
Oronooko, and went home amused and satisfied. 

It was by this means that Wilson was brought into 
contact with many eminent theatrical characters, whom 
he frequently invited to his table, and entertained with 
his accustomed liberality. I had the happiness to meet 
John Kemble there, and I was highly delighted with 
my good fortune, and the more so, as I sate next to 
him. The conversation at first did not seem to interest 
him. Dick’s instinct for inviting bores had not been 

inactive on this occasion. A Mr. W-w kept up a 

perpetual spluttering, and went on talking, though 
nobody seemed to listen to him. Kemble was uncom¬ 
monly silent, and I did what I could, though I trust 
with no unseemly importunity, but only as much as he 
would consider complimentary, to get him to converse. 
A few revolutions of the bottle at length relaxed his 
taciturnity, and he made some remarks about Shaks- 
peare, that proved how diligently he had read him; 
and what is most essential to just Shaksperean criti¬ 
cism, how much he had studied the poets and writers 
that were Shakspeare’s contemporaries. We got upon 
the historic plays of the great dramatist. Kemble said, 
that it was not difficult, though it required some atten¬ 
tion, to feel one’s way through the historical plays; but 
that a little practice would soon enable a man to dis¬ 
tinguish the metal from the clay. This was a subject 
peculiarly interesting to me, and I called to see him the 
next morning, when he kindly resumed the subject. He 
told me, that long before Shakspeare’s time, the stage 
was in possession of a succession of historical dramas, 



THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


67 


which Shakspeare was employed to alter, and adapt to 
the more improved taste of a more modern audience ; 
that this circumstance would sufficiently account for the 
evident traces of the elder plays, which a critical eye 
would easily discern in almost all the historical plays 
attributed to Shakspeare, with the exception of Rich¬ 
ard the Third, and Henry the Eighth, which were un¬ 
questionably and exclusively his own. King John, he 
observed, was a patch-work of this kind, though it con¬ 
tained many scenes scarcely surpassed by the genius of 
Shakspeare. The greater part of the first act he con¬ 
sidered to be spurious, as well as the second and fourth 
scenes of the third act, not a line of which could have 
flowed from a mind like Shakspeare’s. But the solilo¬ 
quy of Falconbridge in that act, and the speech of 
the same personage that concludes the second, were 
stamped with the impress of the mighty master. The 
rest of the play, he had no doubt, was genuine, not 
merely from the language, which was not always the 
surest test, but from the spirit and animation with 
which the characters are sustained. 

1 asked him what he thought of Richard the Second. 
He read a note he had written upon that play, in which 
he had calculated that not more than one half was 
written by Shakspeare. The rest, he said, had been 
retained from the old play of the same name, noticed 
by Camden and Lord Bacon. “ It is astonishing,” he 
remarked, “ how little this part of the subject has been 
attended to by the editors. Pope rejected the rhym¬ 
ing couplets, as not proceeding at all, or with very few 
exceptions, from the hand of Shakspeare; but there his 
suspicions about the play stopped. He referred the 
striking disparity in this and in other plays, to the ine- 


68 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


quality of the poet’s genius. But Shakspeare could not, 
unless by an intellectual impossibility, descend to low 
prosaic insipidity;—such trash, for instance, as the 
whole of the last two acts of Richard the Second. Yet, 
how beautifully are these acts enamelled, now and 
then,by Shakspeare; particularly in the entry of Boling- 
broke into London, and his complaint of his son’s dis¬ 
orderly conduct. I had great difficulty,” continued 
Kemble, “ in convincing George Steevens that the gar¬ 
den scene, at the conclusion of the third act, was not 
Shakspeare’s. I read it over to him. He would not 
feel that it was spurious. Finding, therefore, that it 
was of no use appealing to his taste, 1 made use of a 
collateral argument, which produced instant convic¬ 
tion. It was this:—In all his historical plays, Shakspeare 
had the good sense and judgment never to deviate from 
the chronicles. To this Steevens fully assented. Now, 
at the period represented in the play, the nominal 
queen was a child of only ten years of age, the daughter 
of Charles the Sixth of France; whereas, through the 
whole of this scene, by a gross blunder, she is con¬ 
founded with the former queen, Anne of Bohemia. A 
similar instance of the historical accuracy of Shak¬ 
speare, compared with the writers of some of the plays 
that he retouched, occurs, I told Steevens, in the second 
part of Henry the Sixth, the greater part of which is 
genuine. There, the hereditary title of the Duke of 
York is stated with the greatest perspicuity; whereas, 
in the first part, which the ablest critics have unani¬ 
mously rejected, as not containing a single line from the 
pen of Shakspeare, the claim of the House of March, 
through which that of York was derived, is enveloped 
in confusion and absurdity.” 


THE BEEP-STEAK CLUB. 


69 


Kemble seemed to think lightly of Warburton, as a 
commentator on Shakspeare. “ One of his emenda¬ 
tions is, however,” said he, 44 singularly happy, and the 
first time I played King John 1 adopted it, but 1 got 
hissed for it. It is in the passage of John’s dialogue 
with Hubert. The old editions have it thus, and it 
remained so in the prompt-book even in Garrick’s 
time, who did not see the propriety of the emenda¬ 
tion : 

‘ If the midnight bell 

Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth 
Sound on unto the drowzy race of night.’ 

Now, for sound on , which is nonsense, Warburton reads 
sound one ; and it is a strong corroboration of the read¬ 
ing that the ghost in Hamlet makes his appearance, 4 the 
bell then beating ONE.’ Yet, some fellows in the pit, 
consisting of a few lawyers’ clerks, thinking that, by 
virtue of having paid their money at the pit-door, they 
had a legitimate title to become critics, tried to scout 
the reading, as being a wanton innovation of my own.” 
This circumstance reminded me of his pronunciation of 
the word aches as a dissyllable, and I ventured to men¬ 
tion it to him. 44 My reason for doing so,” he replied, 
44 is unanswerable. The word was, in Shakspeare’s age, 
always pronounced with two syllables. I used it as a dis¬ 
syllable where the verse would have been spoiled had 
I not done so. It occurred in the Tempest, and you will 
find it in the passage where Prospero is rebuking Cali¬ 
ban for his laziness in bringing in wood. 

‘Fill all thy bones with aches; make thee roar,’ ”•—&c. &c. &c. 

I am aware that, in detailing these conversations, I 
am digressing for a while from the Beef-Steak Club.; 


70 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


but the remarks of an intelligent, and naturally strong 
mind, which supplied the deficiencies of an unsystem¬ 
atic education, by its native stores of thinking, and 
augmented them by constant study and observation— 
the remarks, too, of a man, who, next to Garrick, has 
contributed more to raise the profession of the stage to 
the honourable estimation which it now enjoys, by the 
correctness of his life, and the diligence with which he 
cultivated his art, than any other player, ancient or 
modern, will, I trust, obtain pardon for the digressson. 
The moments we are permitted to pass with the good 
and the great, in the respective generations which they 
illustrate, are too fleeting and transitory not to render 
us willing to retain, if we can, what are less fleeting 
and evanescent, the memorials of their good sense, and 
their virtues. 

Kemble amused me much at this interview (it was 
the last) with an account of the getting up ofVortigern, 
one of young Ireland’s forgeries. “ I constantly refused,” 
he said, “ to look at the manuscripts which old Ireland 
exhibited in Norfolk Street. Mr. Malone, in a few 
minutes’ conversation, convinced me that they were 
spurious, and the fraud betrayed itself in the endless 
contradictions, into which the fellow, who pretended to 
have brought them into light, was betrayed, when he 
first began to account for their coming into his posses¬ 
sion. At Sheridan’s desire, I consented to play it; but 
Mrs. Siddons positively refused to enter, as she ex¬ 
pressed herself, into so abominable a conspiracy against 
the memory of Shakspeare. Sheridan thought that it 
would be good for the treasury, and that public curi- 
osity, or rather the pride of having to decide whether 
a piece was actually written by Shakspeare or not, 


THE BEEP-STEAK CLUB. 


71 


would fill the house for one night, even with advanced 
prices; 4 for you know very well, Kemble,’ said he, 
4 that an Englishman considers himself as good a judge 
of Shakspeare, as of his pint of porter.’ He was right. 
Well. The house overflowed in all parts. The first 
act, much of the second, and a few speeches in the 
third, were endured. Some murmur of discontent 
began, however, to be heard. 4 Give the thing a fair 
trial,’ roared out Humphrey Sturt from the stage-box, 
with the intonation of a bull. Such an appeal to the 
equity of the audience, and from such brazen beings, 
had some effect, and the storm was lulled; but, from 
time to time, there were deep growls of disapprobation 
from different quarters. A line occurred in the part 1 
had to act, which they accuse me of having pronounced 
with a malicious emphasis, to assist the downfall of the 
piece. It was this:— 

‘ I would this solemn mockery were o’er !’ 

The allusion was too obvious not to be caught in a 
moment by an audience wearied to death with what 
they had already gone through, but one half of whom 
were afraid of being too hasty in the condemnation of a 
play, which, if it really was Shakspeare’s, would turn 
the laugh against them. At this line, the most over¬ 
whelming sounds of mingled groan and laughter ran 
through the house; but Humphrey Sturt, whose ordi¬ 
nary tone of conversation reminded you of the noise of 
a fulling mill, again obtained a few moments’ silence, 
but with extraordinary efforts of voice; the pause, 
however, was of short duration; for Phillimore, who 
played Vortigern, had to call out to the soldiers, as 


72 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


they were leading off Mrs. Jordan, who performed 
Rowena, 

‘ Give her up! Give her up! oh, give her up!’ 

This was too much. Humphrey Sturt threw himself 
back on the bench, and burst into a fit of horse-laughing, 
as deafening as the falls of Niagara, and the rest of the 
audience caught the infection. 4 Give her up, give her 
up,’ resounded from a thousand tongues ; the hint was 
taken, and the curtain fell. Joe Richardson came to 
me in my dressing-room, quite delighted with the ver¬ 
dict of the public. 4 If the thing had been tolerated,’ 
he said, 4 it would be a canister tied to Shakspeare’s 
tail to all succeeding ages, or remain a recorded monu¬ 
ment of the dramatic taste and critical discernment of 
England at the close of the eighteenth century.’ As for 
old Ireland, he never forgave either Phillimore or my¬ 
self. He said, 4 that if I had bona fide intended to let 
the piece have a chance, I should not, as stage-manager, 
have given such a character as Vortigern to Phillimore ; 
for that his nose was long enough to d—n the finest 
play Shakspeare ever wrote.’ The younger Ireland, 
the fabricator of the fraud, was all this time sitting in 
one of the upper boxes, apparently unconcerned, by 
the side of Polly Thompson, or some such person¬ 
age ; the person, from whose head, as he afterwards 
confessed, he had cut the identical lock of hair exhi¬ 
bited at the elder Ireland’s, as a lock from the head of 
Mrs. Anna Hatherewaye (the lady to whom Shakspeare 
is said to have been betrothed) and which he pretended 
to have found amongst the manuscripts, with this me¬ 
morandum inscribed in Shakspeare’s hand-writing:_ 

4 This is the haire of Mistresse Anne Hatherewaye.’ 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


73 


The true believers, 1 ’ Kemble continued, “ absolutely 
adored this precious relic, which was religiously en¬ 
shrined in a gilt box, lest a single hair should be lost by 
profane handling.” 

On the Saturday following, Kemble dined as a visiter 
at the Beef-Steaks. We resumed insensibly our last 
conversation, which led us, naturally enough, to the 
proneness almost peculiar to our nation, but most 
eminently so to its metropolis, of swallowing the gross¬ 
est extravagances, and that too with an appetite and 
power of digestion that kept pace with their absurdity. 
The young Roscius, we all agreed, was a recollection 
that should call shame to the cheek of modern London. 
Whatever may be the share of honour due to the art 
of a player, neither at Paris, nor at Madrid, nor at 
Petersburg; no, nor any where, but in the mid-heart 
of cockneyism, would it have been so insulted, as it 
was by the homage which the town lavished upon an 
automaton—a mere child, whose excellence, estimated 
at the highest, transcended other children only in a 
riper fulness of intonation, and a somewhat greater 
command of gesticulation. The whole, as Arnold aptly 
observed, was a most unnatural and forced process; 
not unlike, he said, hatching eggs by steam. But its 
ulterior effects, Kemble remarked, were almost death 
itself to the art. If crowded theatres, containing within 
their circle all that could be assembled of fashion, 
elegance, wit, beauty, taste, showered applauses upon 
children who ought to have been at school, could due 
encouragement be expected by him, who, through long 
and patient study, was working out his title to public 
approbation; by him, who, after a slow and laborious 
progression, had arrived at pre-eminence in a calling, 

VOL. II.— 7 


74 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


that demanded, perhaps more than any other, the 
ripening aid of experience to guide and regulate the 
powers which it called into exercise? What an insane 
spectacle did it exhibit of a polished nation claiming to 
take the lead in the protection of the liberal arts—its 
largest theatre crammed to suffocation, to gape upon a 
boy, strutting as an emperor, or kneeling as a lover; 
and, as if this was not enough, the journals of the fol¬ 
lowing day exhausting all their English for phrases of 
panegyric, to describe the spirited conception, the truth 
and accuracy of delineation, with which an urchin of 
twelve, nay, not so much—not twelve—portrayed the 
most subtle emotions, and the most complicated pas¬ 
sions of our nature; and the rapidity, like that of instinct, 
with which he unravelled the most perplexed involutions 
of sense and diction in his author ? 

There was a still more recent instance of what 
Kemble (and I have reason to know that Mrs. Siddons 
fully concurred with him) considered to be an undue 
admeasurement of theatrical reputation, and as origin¬ 
ating in the same unreflecting appetite for novelty, that 
had fostered the young Roscius into his short-lived 
dramatic existence. But he was sparing of remark 
upon the subject, and naturally shrunk, like a benevo¬ 
lent man, from weighing in very nice scales the deserts 
of any living creature, when too severe a criticism 
might probably intercept his bread. But somewhat of 
controversy having been gradually infused into the 
conversation, and one of the party having indulged in 
a most hyperbolical panegyric upon Kean’s acting, he 
could not abstain from saying something; but it was 
reluctantly done, and with great candour; and not a 
little to Arnold’s discomposure, who had been deputed 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


75 


by the Drury-Lane Committee to go down to Exeter, 
where Kean was playing, for the purpose of witnessing 
his performance; and who, having seen him in Richard, 
had engaged him for that theatre without further cere¬ 
mony. At length, as if teazed and goaded with the 
unmeasured encomiums which some one, for the sake, 
as 1 suspect, of drawing Kemble out upon the subject, 
was lavishing upon Kean, John declared him fit only 
for a burletta. Rivalry, he remarked, was out of the 
question; he himself was now retired from the stage, 
and he was only speaking upon a mere point of taste. 
He thought that in a very short time the poor fellow 
would break down beneath the weight of his reputation. 
His reception, he said, was too overwhelmingly flatter¬ 
ing to allow him time to reflect on the precarious breath 
of popular applause, so as to prepare for a sudden 
shifting of the gale; and he would thus be kept in a 
walk, for which neither previous study, nor natural or 
acquired faculties had fitted him, only to be driven from 
it when his incapacity to tread in it should be become 
more apparent. Whereas, he observed, a really excel¬ 
lent artist, Talma, for instance, lay safely moored in 
the public approbation, and secure from the vicissitudes 
of taste; because the admiration he excited would stand 
the test of reason, and, therefore, ran no risk of a sud¬ 
den and capricious diminution. “You will see,” said 
John, with something like a prophetic gravity, “that 
the actor we are now canvassing, will be driven to the 
trick of withdrawing to America, as a frail beauty of 
the lobby finds it expedient to withdraw her charms 
from it for awhile, to reappear when her face has been 
long enough forgotten.” The popularity of Kean was, 
he continued, radically unsound. The galleries, in his 


76 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


case, led the rest of the house; and it was his by-play 
(which, if not sparingly and judiciously used, was con¬ 
temptible buffoonery) that chiefly delighted them. 

The last time Kemble had dined with us at the Beef- 
Steaks, was when his friend the late Duke of Norfolk 
was present. The place, the chair formerly occupied 
by his Grace, were so many links in a chain of agree¬ 
able association, to one who remembered him so well, 
and loved to cherish that remembrance; for Kemble 
had received many substantial kindnesses from his 
Grace. John told us that he had seldom, in the whole 
course of his life, erred on the side of convivial intem¬ 
perance ; but in his Grace’s society, whose powers of 
carrying off a great quantity of wine, and the charms 
of whose conversation (seducing others into the same 
excess) were, he said, never equalled by man,—a long 
sitting seemed miraculously to comprise itself into a 
most inconsiderable space; and it was impossible, even 
for those who practised the austerest temperance, to 
wish to get away. 

It sometimes happened, at the close of the evening, 
that the Duke, without exhibiting any symptom of 
inebriety, became immoveable in his chair, as if de¬ 
prived of all muscular volition. He would then request 
the bell to be rung three times ; this was the signal for 
bringing in a kind of easy litter, consisting of four equi¬ 
distant belts, fastened together by a transverse one, 
which four domestics placed under him, and thus re¬ 
moved his enormous bulk, with a gentle swinging 
motion, up to his apartment. Upon these occasions, 
the Duke would say nothing; but the whole thing was 
managed with great system, and in perfect silence. 

Kemble had, one night, sate very late at one of the 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


77 


potations of Norfolk-House. Charles Morris had just 
retired, and a very small party remained in the dining¬ 
room, when his Grace began to deplore, somewhat 
pathetically, the smallness of the stipend, upon which 
poor Charles was obliged to support his family ;—ob¬ 
serving, that it was a discredit to the age, that a man, 
who had so long gladdened the lives of so many titled 
and opulent associates, should he left to struggle with 
the difficulties of an inadequate income at a time of 
life, when he had no reasonable hope of augmenting it. 
Kemble listened, as he told us, with great attention to 
the Duke’s jeremiade ; —but, after a slight pause, his 
feelings getting the better of his deference, he broke out 
thus, in a tone of peculiar emphasis :— 44 And does your 
Grace sincerely lament the destitute condition of your 
friend, with whom you have passed so many agreeable 
hours ? Your Grace has described that condition most 
feelingly. But is it possible, that the greatest peer of 
the realm, luxuriating amidst the prodigalities of for¬ 
tune, should lament the distress which he does not 
relieve ? The empty phrase of benevolence—the mere 
breath and vapour of generous sentiment, become no 
man; they certainly are unworthy of your Grace. 
Providence, my Lord Duke, has placed you in a station, 
where the wish to do good and the doing it, are the 
same thing. An annuity from your overflowing coffers, 
or a small nook of land, clipped from your unbounded 
domains, would scarcely be felt by your Grace ;—but 
you would be repaid, my Lord, with usury;—with 
tears of grateful joy;—with prayers warm from a 
bosom, which your bounty will have rendered happy.” 

Such was the substance of Kemble’s harangue. Jack 
Bannister used to relate the incident, by ingeniously 


78 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


putting the speech into blank verse, or rather a species 
of numerous prose, into which Kemble’s phraseology 
naturally fell when he was highly animated. But, how¬ 
ever expressed, it produced its effect. For, though the 
Duke (the night was pretty far gone, and several bot¬ 
tles had been emptied) said nothing at the time, but 
stared with some astonishment at so unexpected a lec¬ 
ture; not a month elapsed before Charles Morris was 
snugly invested in the beautiful retreat, that sequestered 
house, and the few acres smiling around it, to which I 
have alluded already. This, with a few other instances 
of similar benevolence, serve as pleasing contrasts to 
the general tenour of a character which, if nicely in¬ 
spected, will be found almost uniformly selfish and 
sensual; but they are of too unfrequent recurrence to 
redeem it. Perhaps no man, except Charles the Se¬ 
cond, of procreative memory, “ diffused his Maker’s 
image through the land”* more than his late Grace of 
Norfolk. Nor was he fastidiously delicate as to the 
moulds which fashioned his progeny. Most of them 
are remarkable for a gipsy tint, and Jewish conforma¬ 
tion of visage. To some of his natural children he was 
kind, but to others he gave no aid or protection. One 
of them who had received little or nothing from him in 
his life-time, but had been taught to expect something 
at his death, vented his disappointment in this epitaph : 

On Norfolk’s tomb inscribe this playcard, 

He lived a beast, and died a blackguard. 

You would hardly expect, in a Society consisting of 
twenty-five persons, that the conversation of all should 
be equally sprightly or intelligent; but in this, as in 


* Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel. 




THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


79 


other clubs, there is a class of indirect contributors 
to the general festivity, who fill what may be termed 
useful underparts at the board; like the Greek parti¬ 
cles that, unmeaning as they appear, have their due 
share in the harmony and intonation of a Greek sen¬ 
tence. Of this class is old Walsh, who from having 
sung these last thirty years an absurd song about “ lamb¬ 
kins playing,” has the prescriptive title of “ Gentle 
Shepherd.” Perhaps no man in the Sublime Society will 
make a chasm in it more difficult to fill up. Walsh is 
no slight adept in that semi-buffoonery so often observ¬ 
able in men of a certain standing, who are unwilling to 
forego the place they still retain in the societies of 
younger and brisker spirits. This serves him admira¬ 
bly as a succedaneum for wit, while it enables others 
to laugh at him with little or no expenditure of inge¬ 
nuity or fancy; for such a being is himself a ready¬ 
made joke. At a table assembled to laugh, Walsh, 
therefore, is a treasure; a soft, easy cushion for wit¬ 
lings to repose on, or for the inexperienced tyro to 
break his first jests upon, without fear of giving offence, 
or of hurting a feeling. Every festive society has, 
more or less, a member or two of this class; men who 
are pleasant, but not pleasing; liked by all, but re¬ 
spected by none. Yet they contribute to the amount 
of your mirthful sensations, and from being barely tole¬ 
rated at first, win their way imperceptibly with you, 
till your social system would seem incomplete without 
them. It must be by some undefinable fascination of 
this nature, that Walsh has pushed himself so success¬ 
fully along. However that may be, he has been one of 
the luckiest of the sons of Adam—if by luck is meant 
that perverse problem in the affairs of life—a man’s 


80 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


reaching a degree of prosperity and independence, to 
which, at his first setting out, it would have been mad¬ 
ness for him to have aspired; justled, or kicked, or 
pushed along by a series of mere fortuitous impulses, 
blindly co-operating to his advancement. Walsh is 
habitually a legatee. In some corner of a will, there 
is almost sure to lurk a snug little bequest to Walsh ; 
not, indeed, to any considerable extent, but consti¬ 
tuting, in the aggregate, a handsome addition to his 
substance. The duke of Norfolk, the late Sir John 
Aubrey, are far from being the only names that 
have in this way embalmed themselves in Walsh’s 
remembrance. 

This venerable beef-steaker lived through a great 
portion of the last century, and has dipped deeply into 
the present. It is a remarkable, and a meritorious part 
of his biography, that he began life in the humble con¬ 
dition of a domestic in the celebrated Lord Chester¬ 
field’s family, and that he accompanied, in the capacity 
of a valet, that nobleman’s natural son, Mr. Philip 
Stanhope, on his tour through the continent. His name 
occurs once or twice in the Earl’s Letters to his son. 
He was afterwards a messenger in the Secretary of 
State’s Office, and at last a Commissioner in the Cus¬ 
tom-House. It was certainly not the advantages of a 
liberal education that gave the colour to Walsh’s for¬ 
tunes; nor has the circumstance been the slightest 
impediment to him. The late Sir Charles Bamfylde 
used to tell a story of Walsh with great glee. They who 
are versed in the criminal incidents of about forty 
years ago, must well remember the celebrated case of 
Captain Donellan, who was executed for the murder 
of Sir Theodosius Boughton. Donellan had been a man 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


81 


of gaiety and expense about town, and was embarrassed 
in his affairs. He had, unfortunately, a considerable 
reversion expectant on the baronet’s demise; and this 
circumstance probably urged him to the deed for which 
he suffered. Sir Theodosius was in a languid state of 
health, and Donellan, who assiduously attended his 
sick chamber, frequently gave him his medicines, and, 
on one of these occasions, contrived to administer to 
him a phial of distilled laurel-leaf, a most deadly poison, 
which he had been seen to prepare. The poor young 
man swallowed the whole contents, and expired in a 
few hours. Though there could be no doubt of Donel- 
lan’s guilt, it was a case of the nicest circumstantial 
evidence; and Mr. Justice Buller, who tried it, is sup¬ 
posed to have pressed it too hardly against the prisoner. 
W alsh had been well acquainted with Donellan; and 
at his request went down to his trial, and attended him 
with great kindness from the gaol to the court-house. 
As Sir Charles was wont to relate the anecdote, Walsh 
placed himself close to the bar, where his unhappy 
friend was placed, and began explaining to him some 
of the ordinary solemnities that take place on these 
occasions. “There, Donellan,” said Walsh, “there’s 
the jury ! There is the judge ! If ) ou are found guilty, 
he will put on a black cap, and sentence you to be 
hanged. But it all depends on the jury; for they have 
only to say one single monosyllable , Guilty or not 
Guilty, and you will be hanged, or set at liberty.” 

Sir Charles was fond of relating, probably of invent¬ 
ing, these kind of slip-slops, and fastening them upon 
poor Walsh. I heard Bamfylde once say, that Walsh 
was seated at a dinner, when a John Dory was served 
up; upon which he turned round to a lady who was 


82 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


next to him, and asked her, if she could tell him the 
botanical name of the fish, for that its real name could 
not possibly be John Dory?—At another party, Walsh 
was complaining that he had lately received an abusive 
letter, but could not tell from whom, as it had no signa¬ 
ture. Some person inquired whether it was an anony¬ 
mous letter. Walsh, who, as Bamfylde observed, knew 
as much about the derivation of the word anonymous 
as he did of his own begetting, instantly replied, 
“Anonymous ! Yes, very anonymous. It was the most 
anonymous letter 1 ever received!” For mine own 
part, I am inclined to suspect that these anecdotes 
should only be related, as specimens of the kind ol 
banter, which Sir Charles was fond of exercising on his 
best friends, and in which there lurked not the smallest 
particle of ill-nature. During my acquaintance with 
Walsh, though he is by no means a lettered man, I 
never heard one illiterate mistake escape from his lips. 
He had picked up in the intercourses of a varied life 
enough of the idiom of good society, to qualify him for 
admission into it; and as the first lesson of a man of 
the world is to dissemble ignorance, I deem it highly 
improbable that he should have committed blunders, 
which would have excluded him from much lower 
associations than those which he frequented. No man 
was more versed in this important science. Ulysses 
himself did not better deserve the epithet of voxirpoiros. 

Opposite to the chair of the president, sits Harry 
Stephenson. His seat is prescriptive, for he is our 
secretary. He is a casual descendant from the late 
Duke of Norfolk, who educated him to the law; but 
that coyest of coquettes, probably because she was not 
wooed with sufficient ardour, has scarcely deigned to 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


83 


smile upon him. It is difficult to pass him by; but to 
paint him as he is, would exceed the powers of any 
pencil, and would demand more varieties of tint, and 
stronger contrasts of colouring, than verbal description 
can summon to its aid. 


“ Quo teneam nodo mutantem Protea vultus?” 

1 _ ’ . ' " S ~ \ „ — • < 

He is a mass of excellent endowments, each contrasted 
with its corresponding fault. He is, however, chiefly 
remarkable for carrying the Beef-Steak style, of which 
the legitimate scope is most ample, to its farthest 
extreme of licentiousness. He approaches almost to 
cynicism. “ It is a cur,” said Cobb, “ that will worry 
when he can, but if he cannot worry he will bark. He 
spares no man; and he is of the greatest use in being 
set at new members, or candidates for admission ; for 
his attack, if patiently borne, is the surest criterion of 
the most passive and serene temperament, that the 
Beef-Steaks requires in its members.” Introduced by 
the Duke of Norfolk into the Society, at a somewhat 
earlier age than usual, he soon became a sort of spoiled 
child there; and, by a mistake incident to inexperience, 
imagined that the indulgence shown to youthful petu¬ 
lance, was the homage paid to superiority of talent. 
In this he is, indeed, far from being deficient; but it is 
of the kind which nature serves out in wholesale 
quantities; a tolerably sound, but every-day under¬ 
standing. 

It is no easy matter to brush Harry Stephenson off" 
when he assails you ; for it is an insect that makes up 
for feebleness of sting by reiteration of attack, and 
is, for that reason, rather troublesome than hurtful 


84 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


Harry’s coarseness on one occasion lost an excellent 
and worthy member—an eminent physician, and a man 
of great classical erudition. In a gross perversion of the 
humour of the Society, and a misconception equally 
gross of the convivial habits of polished life, Harry gave 
him the odious and annoying name of Doctor E—, the 
most hateful combination of letters that has ever been 
chalked on the walls of London and her suburbs. The 
adhesiveness of any nickname is proverbial. The mor¬ 
tification was too much, and he left us. Yet, in many 
other respects, Harry is by no means wanting in discre¬ 
tion. In the household of the Duke of Sussex, where 
he has for some years acted as comptroller, he has 
been of incalculable service to his royal friend and 
master; having nearly, if not wholly, liberated that 
excellent Prince from the incumbrances into which a 
generous nature, and the exigencies of his elevated rank, 
had unwarily, and almost necessarily, misled him. 
Well managed by others, or influenced by a sterner 
self-restraint, Harry would be a most invaluable mem¬ 
ber of our board. As it is, his place could not be 
supplied. 

From these portraitures, which are, and must be 
imperfect, and curtailed of many of their just lineaments 
and proportions, by the respect due both to dead and 
to living names, some idea, at least, may be formed of 
the Beef-Steak groupe. 

But there are many others in this galaxy of convivial 
spirits, who shine, perhaps, with a more temperate 
radiance;—men who, though they do not much con¬ 
tribute to the festivity of the social hour, by sparkling 
sallies of wit, or successful exertions of banter, keep 
alive the union, the harmony, the good-will of the 


THE BEEF-STEAK CLUB. 


85 


board, by the softer qualities, and the gentler manners, 
that render private life at once pleasant and secure;— 
men who, to use the beautiful phrase of Burke, are 
“ the soft green of the soul,” on which we linger with 
delight. One of these has for some years been lost to 
us. He was a man of cultivated taste; a passionate 
idolater of music ; and endued with a genuine, though 
somewhat eccentric, style of humour; and this seemed 
chastened and rebuked by a certain melancholy, that 
was more germane to his feelings, and tinged, in some 
degree, his mirth. Domestic misfortune weighed heavi¬ 
ly upon him. He stood condemned by the rash sen¬ 
tence of a world, that always misjudges those whom it 
does not know. No appeal lay from it but to the 
inward suffrage of his own bosom, and to the very few 
friends who were acquainted with that tale of sorrow. 
It is of the late Lord Viscount Kirkwall that I speak. 
He assured me one evening, that the few happy mo¬ 
ments that his fate seemed not to grudge him, were 
passed with us at the Beef-Steaks. 

In this class, also, may be placed Rowland Stephen¬ 
son, the most respectable of bankers. Never did a 
clearer head, and a better heart, meet together; nor 
does the heart wait, as it does in ordinary cases, a cold 
and calculating lesson from the head; but the most 
spontaneous and generous impulses of the one, are 
ratified by the cool decisions of the other. “ Never,” 
as Hamlet says, “ were the blood and judgment so well 
commingled.” 

At the same table, too, sits Dennison, the worthy 
member for Surrey; a man of cheerful gravity, an excel¬ 
lent companion, admirable as a Beef-Steaker, and ami¬ 
able in every other human relation. Commerce never 

vol. ii.—8 


86 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


boasted of a brighter ornament. Well might she silence 
the foolish gabble of those, who think that commerce 
implies, necessarily, narrowness of heart, or a sordid 
self-centered appetency of gain, or an indifference to 
the calamities and sufferings of the whole race of man 
—by bringing forward to shame and refute it, such a 
man as Dennison. Nor is he less to be venerated in 
the other aspect, in which you may contemplate his 
character;—that of the country gentleman ; the kind 
and liberal landlord ; the upright magistrate; the lover 
and protector of the cottager and the peasant! 

Such is this renowned and ancient Society, whose 
elements are so curiously mixed, and in the nicest and 
most exquisite proportions; interposing, amidst the 
vexations of existence, the feverish pursuits of ambition, 
and its fretful disappointments, a few hours of unmingled 
pleasaunce , for the heart to repose from its burdens, 
and to pour out, amidst wine, and song, and merriment, 
the unrebuked, unfettered effusions of its gladness. 
Such a Society, of high antiquity, compared with the 
thousand ephemeral combinations called Clubs, unites 
within itself the perpetual animation of youth, and the 
adult strength of near a century’s growth. The hilarity, 
the wit, the mirth of each succeeding generation, are 
the seeds of its conversation. I shall conclude my 
rapid, but I trust authentic, sketch of it, with an aspi¬ 
ration not unbecoming the piety of one of its children, 
esto perpetua! 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


87 


II. 

LITERARY AND BLUE-STOCKING CLUBS. 

If there be any pleasure in contrast, my reader shall 
now enjoy it. In transition from the ancient, genial 
fraternity, whose memoirs I have just attempted to 
transcribe, and in which the genuine Club-spirit has 
resided, like an imprisoned essence, for the best part of 
a century, l shall proceed to give some account of a 
soi-disant Literary Club, which, perhaps, may answer 
equally well as a description of many other assemblies 
of the same class. Of all solemn bores, these learned 
Clubs are the most oppressive: they have little or no 
admixture of the natural and characteristic humours of 
man: the mind never sits there in its dishabille, but 
struts and marches in full-dressed coxcombry. So much 
talking, and so little said ! Every one failing, because 
every one is attempting; in a word, so little of the Club¬ 
feeling, which demands the postponement of our petty 
self-loves to the general gratification, and strikes only 
in unison with the feelings and sentiments of all! 

Literary Societies, therefore, had long sickened me, 
and I had resolved to- keep clear of them for the residue 
of my natural life. But see the inanity of human vows! 
I was strongly urged not long ago by a friend, whom I 
highly value, to dine with him at a certain Club, con¬ 
sisting only of literary men, each of whom had written 
volumes, and had been registered high in the tablets ol 
fame, and he promised me an intellectual treat of the 


88 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


highest order. Though long habits of thinking had 
made me diffident of such dainties, in a weak moment 
I consented, and accompanied him, that very day, to 
the Thatched-House in St. James’s Street. 

Gladly would I have retracted, for it shortly after¬ 
wards recurred to me, that my own dinner, on that day, 
was a select miscellany, precisely corresponding to my 
most cherished likings. In her amiable reminiscense 
of all that ministers to my comforts, my better half, 
having noted on my lips sundry approving ejaculations 
at one or two dishes, dressed in superior taste, at some 
tables where we had lately dined,had enlarged her neat 
and frugal repast, by an innocent plagiary from what 
she had observed me to admire. Besides, I could 
always, in my own house, rely on finding a snug bottle 
of pleasing port, a tranquillizing refuge from a moderate 
dinner, but a most exquisite consummation to a good 
one. It was that very wine which used to inspire my 
friend, Jack Taylor, with the same invariable bad pun, 
Inveni portum, as he put out his hand to the decanter. 

As for the sensual part of the literary banquet, I had 
some sinister forebodings of its turning out a woful 
contrast to the nicely elaborated delicacies, and the 
honest port, that awaited me at home. Nor was I 
wrong. Willis did not think it became him to furnish 
a very good dinner to gentlemen, whose wonted diet is 
with the gods. It seemed to consist of memorandums 
of several by-gone entertainments, warmed up again, 
and retaining the semblance of what they once were? 
though their flavour and quality had walked quietly off 
in the process. As for the wine, he gave us the inferior 
quality which, I am told, he keeps expressly for such 
parties, and which those who frequent his house have 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


89 


christened u the Philosopher’s Port.” It had, to say 
the truth, a strong dash of philosophy or something else 
in it. 

And who can blame him for not dispensing his best 
wines to palates too unpractised to give them “ homage 
due?” Then it was, that my little domestic preparations, 
and my own bottle of quiet port, from which 1 had been so 
wanton a recreant, rushed upbraidingly on my recol¬ 
lection ! But stop till the cloth is removed. Then for 
the corruscation and play of intellect; the electric flash 
of wit; the condensed sententious wisdom ; those gentle 
and fertilizing distillations, that fall from the lips of 
highly-gifted men, when they pause from their severer 
studies in pleasing converse with congenial spirits. 
Nothing of this. The master-minds of the age talked, 
debated, and prosed; but not a word was uttered that 
was worth remembering. It might be a feast of reason, 
but it was fit only for a Barmecide. Nothing was 
served up at it, but the husks and shells of old, worn- 
out subjects ; nor did the epigrammatic terseness in 
which they were expressed, atone for their staleness and 
vulgarity. It was Dulness herself presiding at her most 
chosen rites. Whether it was from her leaden influ¬ 
ence, or that of the philosophic port—I returned yawn¬ 
ing home, feelingly convinced, that if literary men could 
make books, they were quite incompetent to make 
Clubs. 

Is it not a provoking problem, or rather a mortifying 
truth, that parties of this kind should, at least ten times 
in twelve, turn out stupid and uninstructive ? Is it that 
they speak more from books than from themselves ; 
that they are given too much to pamphlet-speaking, a 
most unequal tribute levied on human patience, and a 
8 * 


90 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


direct breach of the great tact of conversation, which 
is a touch-and-go sort of affair? At the Thatched-House, 
on that occasion, no man’s mind seemed to repose in 
its careless and unfettered attitudes; and I remarked 
that every talker was evidently anxious to assemble 
every thing that could sustain his proposition. Never 
shall 1 forget the panic I felt when a privileged proser, 
preparing to explain that most delightful question—the 
currency—said, he must be permitted to consider it 
upon three distinct grounds. But, God help him ! he 
did not stop for permission, and off he set with the 
most complete dulness prepense. What could be more 
appalling than the certainty of having one’s attention 
lugged along by a true-bred proser going over his three 
grounds ? It is like travelling in an open country, and 
seeing the mile-stones ranged in a straight line before 
you, without a hedge or a turning to cheat you of the 
distance. 

This literature of ours, that we are, perhaps, justly 
proud of, much as it may improve and embellish the 
general society of mankind, does not act so propitiously 
upon our little coteries; and, when the mania breaks 
into our family circles, it substitutes for the smiling 
household charities, the graceful harmonies that render 
private life sweet and wholesome, a thousand pedan¬ 
tries and affectations: I am a little sore on this point. 
For, whilst the smack of the philosophic port was yet 
recent in my mouth, and the din of the prosing still 
buzzing in my ear, 1 was hooked into an engagement, 
which I would willingly have declined, could I have 
made head against the tyranny of etiquette, which was 
quite against me, and the decision of a cabinet council, 
where my wife and daughters had already determined 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


91 


the point. It was to dine with a literary banker in the 
city, and his no less literary wife; and, as a whet for 
the intellectual treat in reserve for me, care was taken 
to let me know that the lady had written an article 
upon political economy in one of the Reviews. At 
dinner, besides the highly talented (if I must use the 
barbarism) host and hostess, were three or four of those 
would-be-clever-if-they-could men, as Jeremy Bentham 
would call them, who have scraped together a good 
deal of literary jargon, by means of lectures, institutes, 
reviews, and other kinds of machinery for the abridg¬ 
ment of mental labour; and who, by eternal fluttering 
about a Blue Woman, are the main contributors, next 
to her own vanity, to the making her a finished, ineffa¬ 
ble bore. As for the dinner itself, it neither displayed 
vulgar plenty, nor elegant tenuity; a matter which, 
like Henry VII., when they voted him an insufficient 
subsidy, I “ rather noted, 1 ’ to use Lord Bacon’s phrase, 
“ than liked.” 

But the conversation was disgusting beyond measure; 
for it began with a satirical mention of one or two of 
my dearest friends, whom I knew to be highly gifted, 
and, in point of intellectual elevation, lifted immeasura¬ 
bly above the loftiest ken of the gabbling coxcombs 
who presumed to sit in judgment upon them. 

“Yes,” said the lady, “I was sadly disappointed 

with H-; I could not draw him out. I tried him 

upon twenty topics, but he was incorrigibly stupid.” 

“ Stupid!” I murmured to myself; but contempt 
came to the relief of my indignation. Oh the cross¬ 
purposes, the contradictions in this carnival of life ! 

That your palmy, luxuriant genius, my valued H-, 

your wakeful, exquisite sense of all that is fair and 




92 


THE CLUBS OP LONDON. 


good, vibrating tremblingly on the nerve, “ where agony 
is born”—your unuttered, because unutterable loathing 
of all deformity in morals, or in letters, and especially 
of the cant and impudence of female pedants ;—your 
finished taste, on which, as in the purest mirror, virtue, 
truth, and literature throw their brightest reflections ;— 
that your high desert—your rich, flourishing intellect, 
attracted by instinct and feeling towards all that is 
lovely and decorous in the universe—that these should 
be pawed, and handled, and criticised by this predes¬ 
tinated she-blockhead! 

I sat some time near the Blue in silence, and know¬ 
ing that silence, in the vocabulary of these women, 
passes for stupidity, thought myself secure. But I had 
reckoned without my hostess. I was engaged in a 
rough controversy with the limb of an u unwedgable 
and gnarled” fowl, for which somebody had applied, 
when she brought me instantly to, by firing a question 
at me, that made the weapon fall from my hands, as I 
was performing the mutilation. 

“ Pray can you tell me,” said she, “ how long the 
Argonautic expedition was before the siege of Troy?” 

I answered rather doggedly, that if she would tell 
me the exact date of the siege, I would endeavour to 
compute that of the expedition. But she did not seem 
deeply versed in the calculations of Newton, or Freret, 
but went on about Apollonius Rhodius, whose poem 
she had been reading, but did not say whether in the 
original, or in Fawkes’s translation, leaving us to infer 
that she had read the author in Greek. By the way, 
was it not Rogers, or some other incorrigible punster, 
who, when some Scotch people were extollingM‘Adam’s 
roads, and exclaiming, that had he lived in one of the 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


93 


ancient republics, public honours would have been 
decreed to him, slily remarked, 44 Yes, they would have 
called him Apollonius of Rhodes.” 

When 1 got home, I swore (the oath is registered in 
heaven) that 1 would never again sit down with a Blue 
Woman. It may be difficult, I said, to get a camel 
through the eye of a needle, but it shall be just as dif¬ 
ficult to get me into Threadneedle Street again. My 
girls, who had watched the symptoms of disgust and 
wearisomeness which I had brought back with me, asked 
me how I could be insensible to the charms of Mrs. 

-’s conversation? I felt the subject at my heart. 

They had been well educated within the range of female 
acquirements. I trembled lest their sound and unper¬ 
verted understandings should be tinged with the fainted 
hues of bluism;—that, tempted by such examples, they 
should overleap the decent boundary that reason, cus¬ 
tom, and good taste have prescribed to the intellectual 

aspirings of their sex. Mrs.-, therefore, served me 

for a sort of clinical lecture. 

44 1 am not surprised,” I said, 44 that your inexperience 
should have led you to imagine the homage she appa¬ 
rently receives, to be the tribute justly levied by her 
genius and learning. I shall shock you by saying, that 
she is deficient in both. In her youth, she had a natural 
smartness, like Miss Never-out’s in Swift’s Polite Con¬ 
versations. But that is all. It must have been some 
demon that whispered to her, 4 Setup for a belle-espritS 
Her reading is slight and desultory. You know not 
yet the facility with which false literary pretences pass 
off. A dashing off-hand habit of interposing an opinion 
on every topic, a promptitude in gathering up the odds 
and ends of other people’s remarks, and hazarding them 




94 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


as her own—this went a great way to establish her, 
No one questions female pretensions ; they are con¬ 
ceded by your sex through ignorance, and from gallantry 
by ours. She has, indeed, some dexterity in escaping 
out of her almost perpetual blunders, and Mrs. Malapro- 
pisms ; yet, what but the grossest flattery should have 
cradled her in these strange literary illusions, and se¬ 
duced her into her ridiculous and insane conviction of 
her own erudition? I am out of patience. Whip me 
these accursed flatterers! 

“ Yet, if she had certificates from every university in 
Europe, I should be slow to admit her proud preten¬ 
sions to taste and genius; for she has no heart, unless 
that cold, withered part of her anatomy be called one, 
which throbs but for herself; which is stone dead to 
every other affection ; which never knew a charity, but 
that which both begins and ends at home, nor ever beat 
one pulsation the quicker for sufferings that did not 
affect herself. Is it a paradox, that good feeling and 
genius are inseparable ? No : to divorce them is so far 
forth to repeal the ordinances of God. 

“ I hate the pedantry of definition, and who yet has 
defined what genius is ? But what is it, or why was it 
given, if it remains a bleak, barren waste, where the 
social charities wither and will not grow; if it does not 
instinctively propel us to concur in the grand harmony 
which results from mutual love, mutual sympathy, 
mutual pity—the golden cords that connect us with 
Heaven ? And what is woman, when the kindly af¬ 
fections have not their accustomed altar in her bosom? 
What is she under the feverish influence of a false am¬ 
bition, mingling in pursuits, and emulous of a fame alike 
alien from her destination, and her duty ? What even 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


95 


are her triumphs, but those of a deserter, who has 
stolen away from his lawful camp, and whose victories 
are his disgraces ? What does she aspire after ? Has 
not Providence benignantly planted her in the smiling 
paradise of domestic love, transmuting, by a precious 
alchemy, even her labours and her sufferings into 
delights ?” 

The fit was on me, and I should have proceeded, but I 
perceived a fair dissentient ready to cut short my tirade 
by reminding me of many females of our day, high in 
letters, and in virtue. I explained. Such women as 
those she mentioned were not to be confounded with 
the coxcombs in sarcenet, who enter into discussions 
they do not understand, handle words they cannot pro¬ 
nounce, and talk of books, of which they have read no 
more than the titles. The late venerable Mrs. Bar- 
bauld, Lady Dacre, Mrs. Tighe, Mrs. Hemans—to 
these distinguished women, he must be a blind stickler 
for male prerogative, who would deny their undoubted 
superiority. I have been in the society of each. They 
entered with ease and unaffected grace into the casual 
conversation of the moment; made their remarks with 
simplicity, and said nothing for the sake of effect; 
showing the utmost tolerance to others, and with sweet 
and encouraging smiles helping on the young and the 
diffident. Real knowledge fed the thoughts and the 
fancies of these ladies. They were never like Mrs. 

-, driven to the desperate resource of reading in 

the morning, and then forcing on the topic in the even¬ 
ing. Here ended my lecture. 

But if the above be the character of many of the 
literary meetings of the day, it will not apply to all ; 
for no doubt there are Clubs thus styled in London, and 



96 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


elsewhere, where the love and knowledge of letters, 
wisdom qualified by urbanity, and learning enlivened 
by the gaiety of social mirth, are to be recognised in 
their best aspects. One such is in my recollection at 
this moment; but it was not situated in London; and, 
I fear, I shall contradict the title of the present work, 
even by a brief allusion to a country Club. Y et, as a 
sketch of the one in question would include a few remin¬ 
iscences of two or three characters of celebrity in litera¬ 
ture, I am tempted to proceed, and trust to my reader’s 
pardon for the digression. 

Never shall I forget the Hole-in-the-Wall Club, which 
flourished some twenty-five years ago, at Norwich; a 
place, perhaps, of all our country towns, the least 
corrupted by metropolitan infusions, because it is 
situated within an angle of the island, and, being no 
outlet to continental travellers, is not overrun by the 
crowds, whom London is constantly sending forth on 
their various schemes of curiosity or pleasure. 

Yet, while it is uninfested by cocknies, it has the ad*- 
vantage also of nurturing within its bosom many of the 
pleasantest groupes and associations with which human 
life is enlivened. The clergy are a tolerant, enlightened, 
and agreeable body ; and the Close, which is scarcely 
tenanted hut by clerical characters, is a sort of minia¬ 
ture Athens, where, in your morning walks, you may 
imbibe the wisdom of the Stoa, or indulge in the splen¬ 
did dreams of the Academy ; for there is always some 
lettered and classic companion to be met with, who 
will be glad to impart to you, though unostentatiously, 
the fruit of his lucubrations. 

Many of the hearty, social usages of our forefathers, 
have long been hermetically sealed up at Norwich, and 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


97 


kept unmixed with the baser matter, which, in other 
places, foppery and fashion have infused. The native 
genuine humour of England flows there, as a living 
brook, unstained aud pure. It is not reluctantly forced 
to play through artificial pipes and conductors; an ad¬ 
vantage in the moral picturesque, not inferior to that 
which the poet has so delightfully pictured in the natu¬ 
ral :— 

“ Quanto praestantius esset 
Numen aquae, viridi si margine cluderet undas, 

Herba, nec ingenuum violarent marmora tophum.” 

At that Club sate Dr. Frank Sayers,* a poet of no 
mean inspiration, a sound antiquarian, an elegant 
scholar, and an accomplished gentleman. His accus¬ 
tomed chair was kept every Monday for him, and it 
would have been a profanation had any other occupant 
filled it. In sooth, he was a man of admirable fun; and 
the characters around him, which no skill of selection 
could have got together in any other Club, or in any 
other town, affording unfailing supplies to his innocent 
and unwounding pleasantry. 

Among these, there was a strange oddity—a fellow 
of much local and some municipal importance, an 
alderman of the city—a most curious specimen of pro¬ 
vincial singularity, serving Sayers at once with food for 
his honest mirth, and materials for philosophical specu¬ 
lation. No lecturer at Guy’s, or St. Bartholomew’s, 

* The accomplished author of the Dramatic Sketches from the 
Ancient Northern Mythology. His life, an invaluable piece of 
biography, has been lately written by his friend, William Taylor, a 
member of that Club, who transcribed it from the tablets of his 
heart.—See Quarterly Review, No. LXIX., for Southey’s review of it. 

VOL. II.— 9 


98 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON*. 


could have made more of him, had he been an anato" 
mical preparation. He handed him about, so as to 
enable every one to enter thoroughly into the most en- 
tertaining of living anomalies; and in such a wise, as 
to amuse and delight the man himself with the good- 
humoured exhibition of his own absurdities. 

One of these absurdities was this: In middle age, 
the creature was seized with the strange ambition of 
studying modern history, and descending the stream 
of events to his own time. For this purpose, he deter¬ 
mined never to look at the newspapers of the day, in 
order, as he said, to have the complete political con¬ 
catenation unbroken in his memory. One hour in the 
day was all that he could devote to his study; but so 
regular and habitual was it, that twenty years had 
made him a tolerable proficient in that part of history 
which preceded the French revolution. He was, how¬ 
ever, with all his industry, several years behind the 
march of events ; for, at the breaking out of that .revo¬ 
lution, he had got no farther than the seven years war ; 
and, wdien the attention of all mankind hung fearfully 
suspended on the progress of Clairfait, and the success 
of Dumourier, he was lingering in the camp of the 
great Frederick, and following, with breathless pertur¬ 
bation, the fortunes of the high-minded Maria Theresa. 
Even so late as the disastrous day of Ulm, when every 
eye w r as fixed on the cloud that blackened the horizon 
of human freedom, all his regrets and sympathies were 
centered in the disgraceful treaty of Closterseven. 

But some undefinable fatality seemed to hang over 
our worthy citizen’s reading—for he unconsciously 
imbibed the popular passions of the period he was 
perusing; so that, historically speaking, he was a 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


99 


staunch Whig, and a hot patriot, in the intensity of 
those designations ; whilst in actual practice, he was 
the most thorough-going of the Church-and-King men 
of the day, and overflowed with the frothy fervour of the 
obtrusive and troublesome loyalty, which was then in 
such fashion. Thus, he was ready for the meanest job 
to serve the very King, whom he had perhaps reviled 
and detested in the letters of Junius; and after raving, 
in his historical hour, with Wilkes and Beckford against 
general warrants, he was for committing to prison 
every drunken fellow who might abuse the church, or 
d—n the King over his porter, and encouraging, if not 
cheering, the loyal mobs that were pulling down the 
houses of republicans and dissenters. 

The strange combination* of retrospective patriot¬ 
ism, and actual servility, furnished Sayers with abun¬ 
dant satire at the expense of the alderman. In allusion 
to the hour, which this worthy devoted in each day to 

his studies, he remarked, that Mr. Alderman B- 

was right as far as he had read; but his intellect had 
gone down at that point, and like a watch that had 
stopped, became right only once in twenty-four hours. 

Amongst other eccentric frequenters of the Hole-in- 
the-Wall, was Ozias Linley, a minor canon of the 
cathedral, and Sheridan’s brother-in-law. He was sub- 


* Burke, in one of his early tracts, seems to have had in view 
this sort of character. “ We are very uncorrupt and tolerably en¬ 
lightened judges of past ages, where no passions deceive, and the 
whole train of circumstances, from the trifling cause to the tragical 
event, is set before us. Few are the partisans of departed tyranny; 
and to be a Whig on the business of an hundred years ago, is very 
consistent with every advantage of present servility .”—Thoughts on 
the Present Discontents , 1768. 



100 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


ject, beyond any one living, to fits of absence. He 
out-Parson-Adamized Parson Adams. He was a tra- 
vesti of the Cambridge George Harvest, of whom Jor- 
tin has so many good anecdotes. One Sunday morning, 
as he was riding through the Close, on his way to serve 
his curacy, his horse threw olf a shoe. A lady, whom 
he had just passed, having remarked it, called out to 
him, “Sir, your horse has just cast one of his shoes.” 
“ Thank you, madam,” returned Ozias, “ will you 
then be kind enough to put it on ?” In preaching, he 
often turned over two or three pages at once of his 
sermon; and, when an universal titter and stare con¬ 
vinced him of the transition, he observed coolly—“ 1 
find I have omitted a considerable part of my sermon, 
but it is not worth going back for,” and then went on 
to the conclusion. 

Upon another occasion, having dismounted in the 
course of his journey, for the purpose of exercise, he 
hung his horse’s bridle on his arm, concluding that he 
would follow ; but the bridle had been put on carelessly, 
and the animal having disengaged it from his head, 
began to brouze very comfortably, and at his leisure. 
In the meanwhile, Linley walked on, the bridle still on 
his arm, to a turnpike-gate, where he offered the usual 
payment for his horse. The man seeing no horse, but 
only a bridle, began staring at the poor canon, whom 
he took for a maniac ; and it was several minutes before 
Linley would suffer himself to be convinced, that it 
was only a bridle he had in his hand, and that his horse 
was not following. 

In his more vernal days, Hudson Gourney* was 


* M. P. for Newport, Isle of Wight. 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


101 


wont to solace himself in the snug Club-Room of the 
Hole-in-the-Wall, and to bask in the sunshine of Say¬ 
ers’s festive conversation. His own heart, too, at that 
time, beat high with frolic and hilarity. Hudson’s was, 
from his earliest prime, a clear, distinguishing intellect. 
He was an elegantly-read man; and his poetry, no 
fragment of which is in print, except his admirable 
translation of the Cupid and Psyche of Apuleius into 
English verse, was by no means of a secondary kind. 
Nursed from childhood in the lap of Fortune, nothing 
has ever been more foreign from his nature than the 
usual capriciousness, and waywardness, peculiar to her 
spoiled children. His wealth is chiefly expended upon 
the luxuries of the heart; in raising the fallen ; in com¬ 
forting the afflicted : and never was one sullen or fitful 
vapour of spleen or unkindness observed to shadow, 
even for a moment, the shining, unvaried disk of his 
benevolence. But I must stop. There is not space 
here for the anthology of his virtues. 

There, too, William Taylor smoked his evening 
pipe, and lost himself in the cloudier fumes of German 
metaphysics, and German philology. Taylor’s transla¬ 
tion of Burger’s Leonora will, probably, survive the 
original. His reading was unlimited; but it principally 
consisted of books that were not readable. His most 
amusing quality, however, (and it was that which kept 
an undying grin upon the laughter-loving face of Sayers,) 
was his everlasting love of hypothesis ; and it was im¬ 
possible to withstand the imperturbable gravity with 
which he put forth his wild German paradoxes, fresh 
from the mint of Weimar and Leipsig. 

How he made the Club stare, as he proved to them 

that Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain, consisted of im- 

9 * 


102 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


mense hail-stones, that fell there in a storm 2000 years 
ago, and became petrified by long exposure to the air! 
How gravely, and as if from the purest conviction, did 
he assert that Norgate’s mind, (a gentleman who had 
taken a house in the Close,) by the certain laws of 
mental pathology, had become enlarged from the time 
that he had lived near the cathedral, and expanded 
from the habitual contemplation of the massy pile 
within his view! How sincerely and unaffectedly— 
(not as a sophist, or a paradox-monger, who draws a 
complacency from his own ingenuity in defending his 
own absurdities, but in right earnest)—did he prove to 
the thorough dissatisfaction of those who knew not 
how to confute him, and to the unspeakable amusement 
of those who thought it not worth their while,—and 
that too by a chemical analysis of colours, and the pro¬ 
cesses by which animal heat and organic structure affect 
them,—that the first race of mankind were green! 
Green, he said, was the primal colour of vegetable 
existence—the first raiment in which nature leaped 
into existence; the colour on which the eye loved to 
repose; and, in the primeval state, the first quality that 
attracted man to man, and bound him up in the circles 
of those tender charities and affinities which kept the 
early societies of the race together. 

Yet these eccentricities never derogated from the 
respect in which he was held, for the depth and diffu¬ 
sion of his knowledge; least of all, from the affection 
which was cherished for his virtues in every bosom 
worthy of a communion with his own. Taylor was 
the best of sons, the best of friends. 

But Sayers ! Sayers was the soul of this little Club ; 
and when he died, its whim, its gayety, all fell with 


LITERARY CLUBS. 


103 


him. After his death, a few persons entered the room 
—smoked a melancholy pipe or two—said little— 
looked wistfully at his empty chair—and came no more. 
He was a man of a natural and arch humour, with 
none of the offensive pretensions of a systematic wit. 
I remember, at a meeting of the directors of the Nor¬ 
wich Public Library, when somebody proposed (it was 
during the fitful changes of the French government, in 
the bad times of the revolution) to order a copy of the 
last new French constitution, Sayers remarking, with 
great gravity, that they had established a rule not to 
admit any more periodical publications. A military 
fop called on him one day at his lodgings, and criti¬ 
cising the smallness of his apartment, remarked, that 
there was not room in it to swing a cat. “ Why, then,’ 1 
said Sayers, “ it is quite big enough for me, for I never 
swing cats !” 

Sayers’s disquisitions have been lately republished. 
They are written in a style at once simple and elegant, 
and exactly corresponding to the subjects on which he 
discourses. 


104 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 

. 

THE KING OF CLUBS. 

This was a fanciful title given to a Club set on foot 
about the year 1801. Its founder was Bobus Smith, 
(himself a Club,) who gave it that whimsical designation. 
1 am speaking of Robert Smith, the late advocate- 
general of Calcutta, the friend and contemporary of 
Canning, at Eton, and his coadjutor in that promising 
specimen of school-boy talent—the Microcosm. The 
Club, at its first institution, consisted of a small knot of 
lawyers, whose clients were too few, or too civil to 
molest their after-dinner recreations; a few literary 
characters, and a small number of visiters, generally 
introduced by those who took the chief part in con¬ 
versation, and seemingly selected for the faculty of 
being good listeners. 

The King of Clubs sat on the Saturday of each month 
at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, in the Strand, which, 
at that time, was a nest of boxes, each containing its 
Club, and affording excellent cheer, though lately dese¬ 
crated by indifferent dinners and very questionable 
wine. The Club was a grand talk. Every one seemed 
anxious to bring his contribution of good sense, or good 
humour, and diffused himself over books and authors, 
and the prevalent topics of the day. 

Politics were, by a salutary proviso, quite excluded. 
Sometimes the conversation rose to the higher moods 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 


105 


of philosophical'discussion; and there were one or two 
who “ found no end in wandering mazes lost,” and 
made us yawn and betake ourselves to our rappee, 
whilst they discoursed highly of mind and matter, of 
first and secondary causation, of the systems of Empe¬ 
docles, Lucretius, Cicero, and Galen. 

I esteemed myself singularly fortunate in being one 
of its earliest members ;—for it was amongst the most 
restless aspirations of my youth, to enjoy the converse 
of older and wiser men. Of those who frequented the 
Club, Bobus'* in every respect, but that of wine, (for 
he was but a frigid worshipper of Bacchus,) was the 
most convivial. He has left in my mind the most vivid 
recollections of his infinite pleasantry; he had great 
humour, and a species of wit, that revelled amidst the 
strangest and most grotesque combinations. His man¬ 
ner was at that time somewhat of the bow-wow kind; 
and when he pounced upon a disputatious and dull 
blockhead, he made sad work of him. But he was the 
merriest man there, (for upon the whole it was some¬ 
what of a grave concern,) and that will sufficiently 
account for his having lived so long in my recollection. 

Then there was Richard Sharpe, a partner of Bod- 
dington’s West India House, and subsequently a Mem¬ 
ber of Parliament during Addington’s and Percival’s 
administrations. By constitutional temperament, and 
the peculiar quality of his understanding, he was 
a thinker, and a reasoner. He was occasionally con¬ 
troversial ; but he had an overflowing fund both of 
useful and agreeable knowledge, and an unfailing stream 

* This was a nick-name given to him at Eton, and it will adhere 
to him even after death. 


106 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


of delightful illustration. Sharpe, when he first went 
into Parliament, excited the warmest expectations of 
those, who, by an absurdity that is very common, pre¬ 
dict, from any unusual vigour of social talent, the 
highest degrees of senatorial success—all the triumphs 
of the House of Commons from a neat and felicitous 
style of discussion at table. When there, he was quite 
transplanted, adding another to the long list which 
daily experience registers of the temerity of that vulgar 
inference. He spoke ; he was listened to ; but neither 
extensive information, nor solid erudition, nor sparkling 
vivacity, nor the condensed weight of all the ratiocina¬ 
tion, with which the mind of man can be overcharged, 
so as to bear down all before him in the private circle, 
and triumph at will in all its petty warfare, can gain an 
audience amidst the storm and whirlwind of those great 
controversies, upon which the hopes and fears of a 
nation are suspended. 

The House of Commons!—it is a sea strewed with 
the mightiest wrecks. It is an arena in which the 
proudest strength has faltered, and the firmest confidence 
grown pale. Bobus himself spoke once, and once only 
in that assembly, and failed. He retired a maimed and 
crippled gladiator from a conflict, in which minds im¬ 
measurably inferior have been victorious. Such are 
the laws by which genius itself is rebuked; such the 
despotism beneath which the highest and palmiest 
faculties are compelled to veil their head, however 
honoured, however flattered, or wreathed and garlanded 
by academic renown. How is this? A volume might 
be written, and the problem still remain unsolved. 

It is that there is sometimes a certain amount of 
reputation already secured by the general suffrage, and 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 


107 


backed and sustained by an inward conscience, that it 
has been justly earned; which, running before a man, 
and telling his story before he enters that house, and 
telling it too with the fervid exaggeration of private 
friendship—becomes a pressure upon sensitive minds, 
a drag-chain that impedes and deadens them in their 
career ? Pre-existing fame operates as a vehement in¬ 
centive not to sink beneath it, and, as in our corporeal 
economy, all our powerful incentives are followed by 
counteracting debilities, our mental constitution is sub¬ 
ject also to the same condition ; and the result is, that 
the man is borne down by the same buoyant and am¬ 
bitious wave that lifted him up. A single failure closes 
the account; and the unhappy adventurer, though under 
the rightful conviction that he has failed from no defect 
of the same talent that has carried hundreds onwards 
without check or impediment—in the full internal 
assurance that his intellectual cruise lacked no oil—that 
he had eloquence and matter at his call—all that could 
sustain his argument—wit and imagination in a heaped 
measure to adorn it—learning sufficient to make his dis¬ 
course like a stream flowing over golden sands—is com¬ 
pelled to sit down amidst all these flatteries of the 
heart, the intellect, the conscience, in affright and des¬ 
pair, left alone to the gloomy family of his own reflec¬ 
tions—those reflections which were wont to be a 
smiling groupe; and which, as he joyed over his own 
attainments, and his own powers, ministered to him 
the purest and sweetest of satisfactions. 

In truth, this House of Commons (I am speaking of 
its better days) will tolerate your absolute bore, pro¬ 
vided he brings to his subject a competent contribution 
of good sense and information. Such a being has often 


i 


108 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


triumphed. He gets up; he disdains, or rather, through 
a peculiar felicity of his nervous system, he does not 
feel the first symptoms of repugnance he has to encoun¬ 
ter : the half-suppressed yawn, but so suppressed as to 
render it the more audible; the ominous banging of the 
green door, that gives you pretty strong hints that you 
are likely to have only the Speaker and the Serjeant-at- 
Arms for your audience; the cough, ambushed in the 
Members’ Gallery, emitted from lungs that seem to have 
economized a month’s inflation for one explosion; still 
he persists, till he gets the ear and the nod of a few in¬ 
telligent persons, anxious to obtain information upon 
the question; he is heard, and perhaps applauded. 
Then, at the close of the debate, he scarcely feels the 
ground, as he walks through the waiting-room; he as¬ 
cends his carriage, and sleeps amidst dreams that still 
murmur with the approbation he has been fortunate 
enough to obtain from the most fastidious assemblage of 
critics in the world. 

It is strange, but not inexplicable. The man de¬ 
ceived no expectation, for he never excited any. It is 
all sheer gain to him, for he had little or nothing to 
hazard. Had he broken down, he would have been 
only where he was before ; he would have lost no re¬ 
putation, but might have retired to his family, or his 
Club, as great a man as ever. He might have remained 
still the undisputed oracle of his neighbourhood, or laid 
down the law at his table, to the perfect conviction of 
the butler, fixed in mute astonishment at his genius. 

Whereas, a highly-gifted being, who has exhausted all 
the stores of learning, scholastic and polite—grown pale, 
perhaps, over the midnight lamp, and set a thousand 
tongues in motion, to yelp out his literary and social 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 


109 


triumphs—when such a man makes his first effort, un¬ 
successfully, before that formidable host, but few of 
whom could assign a single reason for deeming that 
effort a failure, then rush forth, like unimprisoned tem¬ 
pests, envy, and the whole tribe of kindred feelings, 
which solace the little for the overthrow of the great, 
and the unsuccessful aspirant is heard no more. He 
may talk, for the rest of his parliamentary existence, 
good sense in the committee-rooms, set the country 
gentlemen right, and be of much quiet utility. But he 
has failed as a debater ; he has lost the race with all 
the odds in his favour: the swift-footed Salius outstrip¬ 
ped by the beardless Euryalus—Menander conquered 
by Philemon, with whom, an hour or two before, he 
would have scorned a competition. 

I have lived long enough to witness many similar 
exemplifications of the fallacy of our estimates. In truth, 
the house of commons is a test too severe for the sensi¬ 
tiveness of real genius. It is exposing the gilded gondolas, 
whose oars, dashing upon the unruffled canal to the 
melody of voices, and the music of instruments, carried 
her exultingly along—it is exposing her to the rude and 
shifting gales of the Adriatic. I have, in imagination, 
followed the unsuccessful man of talent to his troubled 
couch, his month’s preparation of graceful eloquence 
worse than lost, and all his aspirings perhaps quenched 
for ever; and I have thought of cities laid waste, and 
overthrown; and of Servius Sulpicius’s letter to Cice¬ 
ro, detailing his melancholy, but beautiful reflections 
on the ruins of Megara and Corinth, and other places, 
swallowed up in that grave of empires, where there is 
no more knowledge, and no more devices. 

Richard Sharpe was, I think, in acuteness and pene- 

vol. ii.—10 


110 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


tration, confessedly the first of the King of Clubs. He 
indulged but rarely in pleasantry ; but when any thing 
of the kind escaped him, it was sure to tell. It de¬ 
lighted us all by its unexpectedness. I remember one 
evening, when we were talking about Tweddel,* then 
a student in the temple, who had distinguished himself 
over every competitor at Cambridge, had carried off 
every prize, and was the senior wrangler, and medalist 
of his year. Tweddel was not a little intoxicated with 
his university triumphs. Some one happened to remark, 
that his head was quite turned by his academic honours, 
and that, in the circles of the metropolis, he was wont 
to assume an air, and tone of superiority, which did 
not rightfully belong, and was by no means cordially 
conceded, to him. “ Poor fellow !” exclaimed Sharpe, 
“ he will soon find that his Cambridge medals will not 
pass as current coin in London.” 

I cannot call to my recollection every name that 
stood upon our list. The Club still exists, and boasts 
amongst its members, Lord Holland, Lord Lansdowne, 
and several men of rank and talent. But, at the period 
to which 1 refer, the most frequent attendants, besides 
Sharpe, Bobus Smith, and Mackintosh, were Scarlett 
(the present attorney-general), Sam Rogers, the Plea¬ 
sures of Memory Rogers, honest John Allen, brother of 
the bluest of blues (Lady Mackintosh), M. Dumont, a 
French emigrant of distinction, the friend and corre¬ 
spondent of the Abbe de Lisle, author of Les Jardins, 

* He travelled into Greece, to explore the antiquities of that 
interesting country, and died at Athens —Athenis suis —as was 
inscribed upon his tomb. He was buried in the temple of Theseus. 
His “ Prolusiones ?’ a youthful work, was afterwards published, with 
a biographical notice, by his brother. 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 


Ill 


whose verses he was somewhat apt to recite, with most 
interminable perseverance, in spite of yawns, and other 
symptoms of dislike, which his own politeness (for he 
was a highly-bred man) forbade him to interpret into 
the absence of it in others. 

In this respect, however, he was outdone by Wishart, 
who was nothing but quotation, and whose prosing, 
when he did converse, was like the torpedo’s touch to 
all pleasing and lively converse; and by Charles But¬ 
ler, who, having seen, in the course of a lengthened 
life, a vast variety of character, had treasured up a 
considerable assortment of reminiscences, which, when 
once set a-going, came out like a torrent upon you. 
It was a sort of shower-bath, that inundated you the 
moment you pulled the string. 

These were all men of extensive reading, and some 
of profound erudition. Yet, as a Club, it was some¬ 
what too literary; and the conversation was such, as 
to exclude the topics, out of which the thin and many- 
coloured tissue of light and flowing talk is spun in more 
miscellaneous societies; it gave the professed talkers 
too much opportunity of wasting the hours of easy and 
elegant recreation in verbal disputes, and metaphysical 
refinements; a long and tedious citation from books, 
which they had committed to memory in the morning, 
for the colloquy of the evening. How we (that is, the 
younger and more social members) used to bite our lips 
in pure vexation, and, staring in each other’s faces, 

u Sit in sad civility and hear.” 

We felt it as an abominable shame, that the short sea¬ 
son we could spare from the still-recurring round of 


112 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


our morning labours, should entail on us this voluntary 
taxation of our jaded faculties, after they had run their 
stage, and required to be unharnessed, or, if called out, 
to be exercised merely in the short and easy excursions 
of the table. 

But our circle was often enlarged by visiters, and 
their attendance was so frequent, that some of them 
might be considered as actual members. They some¬ 
times brought us accessions of lively and various con¬ 
stitution, and it was a dull evening without them. 
Lord Erskine, then Mr. Erskine, the leader of the 
English bar, and its pride and glory at that time, came 
not unfrequently amongst us, to enjoy an hour or two, 
stolen from his immense and overflowing business. 

It is a pardonable digression, if it can be deemed a 
digression, to say a little of this great man ; for such he 
must be esteemed by every one who is capable of 
taking a full length view of a most singular and gifted 
mind—a mind, to whose endowments, and a character, 
to whose good qualities there has been of late a grow¬ 
ing insensibility. For I am afraid that the “ exiinctus 
amabitur ,” the posthumous affection which sometimes 
repays with usury the neglect of living reputation, that 
even this pittance is denied to Lord Erskine. Cer¬ 
tainly, his closing day fell in mists and in cloudiness, 
and was ill-suited to the promise of his early, and the 
radiance of his meridian greatness. But that his un¬ 
equalled forensic talents, his unfaltering, adamantine 
integrity amid all the lures and temptations under 
which the ambition of meaner minds has sunk for ever; 
his delightful playfulness in the social circle; his zeal 
for human happiness, and human freedom,—that these 
should be forgotten in an age that sets up such high 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 


113 


pretensions to correct and impartial estimates of those 
who adorn it, is a mournful paradox. 

The truth is, that the mere idolaters of fortune have 
too much sway over our opinions of the great and 
good. They are a numerous and a powerful faction, 
and they have had a sensible influence in the deprecia¬ 
tion of Lord Erskine. The last days of this eminent 
man were clouded by penury and its cares,—a suffi¬ 
cient signal for the whole tribe of flatteries that were 
wont to greet him from a thousand tongues, when his 
very name was pronounced, to glide by on the other 
side, and to leave him unsaluted. Then walked forth 
the whole brood of crawling and envious passions ; long 
buried emulations, and the cherished recollections of 
his former masteries over the mean and the little ; and 
many took ample vengeance upon one, who over¬ 
shadowed them in his hour of might, and, from the 
glance of whose eye, they would formerly have shrunk 
with affright. 

Those who recollect the King’s-Bench bar in the 
best days of Erskine—have they since witnessed an 
advocate similar, or even second to him ? Is there one 
leader in Westminster-Hall, whom either good luck, or 
talent, or the attorneys have raised to that pre-emi¬ 
nence, that can show so many sound and unequivocal 
titles to it ? The late Lord Kenyon was as strongly op¬ 
posed to Erskine’s politics as a man could be. The 
colour and complexion of their minds were wholly 
different. They came often into collision at the period 
to which I refer, which was about thirty years ago; 
and their sentiments upon the judicial questions, which 
so frequently arose in cases of libel and sedition, (and it 
was a time of bitter intestine division,) were as far 
10 * 


114 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


asunder as the poles. It was the age, too, of petulant 
and intemperate Attorney-Generals, for no one consi¬ 
dered himself fit for the situation if he did not file a due 
portion of ex-officio informations. But even in those 
bad-humoured times, that excellent and venerable law¬ 
yer spoke and deemed well of Erskine ; and if any one 
could rightly take offence at his tone and manner, 
which were sometimes indignant even to vehemence, 
in those causes of high concernment into.which Ers¬ 
kine was accustomed to infuse his whole soul—it was 
Lord Kenyon, for I have seen the tears start from his 
eyes, after some little bickering had arisen between 
them. 

I had been on a short visit to Richmond, and was 
returning to town on foot, a conveyance not incon¬ 
venient to a poor barrister, briefless and speechless in 
the back rows of the court. An old coach came rum¬ 
bling along and overtook me. It was one of those vehi¬ 
cles that reminded me of a Duke or Marquis under the 
old regime of Franee, retaining, in indigence and want, 
the faded finery of his wardrobe. Its coronet was 
scarcely discernible, and its gildings were mouldy; yet 
it seemed tenacious of what little remained of its dig¬ 
nity, and unwilling to subside into a mere hackney- 
coach. I believe I might have looked rather wistfully 
at it, for it was a sultry day, when 1 perceived a head 
with a red night-cap suddenly pop out from the win¬ 
dow, and heard myself addressed by name, with the 
offer of a cast to London. 

It was Lord Kenyon, who was returning from his 
house at Marsh-gate, and 1 gladly accepted the invita¬ 
tion. He made the little journey quite delightful to me, 
by an abundance of most characteristic anecdotes of the 


THE KING OP CLUBS. 


115 


bar in his own time ; of Jack Lee, Wallace, Bower, Min- 
gay, Howarth,* the last of whom, he said, was drowned 
in t the Thames on a Sunday water excursion: The good 
old man was evidently affected by the regrets which his 
name awakened, and they seemed the more poignant, 
because his friend was called to his account in an act 
of profanation. “ But it was the sin of a good man,’ 1 he 
observed, “ and Sunday was the only day which a law¬ 
yer in full business could spare for his recreations.” 

Insensibly the conversation turned on Mr. Erskine. 
I know not what perversity of feeling came across me, 
nor do I recollect precisely what I objected to that 
eminent man, but it was a repetition of some of the ill- 
tempered animadversions of Westminster-Hall, that 
were then current. “ Young man,” said the Chief Jus¬ 
tice, “ what you have mentioned is most probably un¬ 
founded ; but these things, were they true, are only 
spots in the sun. As for his egotism, which they are 
so fond of laying to his charge, they would talk of them¬ 
selves as much as Mr. Erskine does of himself, if they 
had the same right to do so. Erskine’s nonsense would 
set up half a dozen of such men as run him down.” 

In his turn, Erskine was grateful and affectionate to 
Lord Kenyon, although not a little disposed occasion¬ 
ally to circulate epigrams, and indulge in pleasantries 
upon the eccentricities of that honest magistrate, whose 
dress, a very old pair of black velvet breeches in par¬ 
ticular, that' had sat at the Rolls,t and at Nisi-Prius for 
twelve years, was always considered fair game. 

* He was a King’s Counsel. At his death, Mingay obtained the 
temporary lead of the King’s-Bench, but was soon afterwards thrust 
out from it by Erskine. 

t Lord Kenyon was made Master of the Rolls in 1785. The Rol- 


116 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


These little jeux d'esprit flew about the barrister’s 
benches, and afforded us frequent amusement. One 
or two of them I happen to recollect. Mr. Justice 
Ashurst was remarkable for a long lanky visage, not 
unlike that which Cervantes sketches as Don Quixote’s. 
Erskine scribbled this ludicrous couplet on a slip of 
paper:— 

“ Judge Ashurst, with his lanthorn jaws, 

Throws light upon the English laws.” 

The other was a Latin distich upon Mr. Justice Grose. 

“ Qualis sit Grotius judex, uno accipe versu; 

Exclamat, dubitat, stridet, balbutit et—errat.” 

It was at the King of Clubs that I heard Erskine de¬ 
tail the story of his early professional life. He was 
certainly fond of the first pronoun personal; but the 
story, as he told it, is an instructive exemplification of 
those golden opportunities, which occur but rarely in 
human affairs. Yet, though what is vulgarly termed 
luck, had its share in urging along his most rapid and 
prosperous career, never was chance so well seconded 
by great talent, by chivalrous zeal, and proud integrity 
of heart and conduct. 

As he related it, the beginning of his fortune was 
ridiculously accidental. “ I had scarcely a shilling in 
my pocket when I got my first retainer. It was sent 
me by a Captain Baillie, of the navy, who held an 

liad (written by Tickell, Dr. Lawrence, and Sheridan) quotes, in a 
note, one of his metaphors. It was in a cause where one of the par¬ 
ties had tried every artifice to gain time. “ This is the last hair in 
the tail of procrastination.” His oratory was of a most eccentric 
kind; it abounded with incongruities quite as ridiculous as this, and 
sometimes with scraps of Latin ludicrously misapplied. 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 


117 


office at the Board of Greenwich Hospital; and I was 
to show cause in the Michaelmas term against a rule 
that had been obtained against him in the preceding 
term, calling on him to show cause why a criminal 
information, for a libel reflecting on Lord Sandwich’s 
conduct as governor of that charity, should not be filed 
against him. I had met, during the long vacation, this 
Captain Baillie at a friend’s table; and, after dinner, 
I expressed myself with some warmth, probably with 
some eloquence, on the corruption of Lord Sandwich 
as first lord of the Admiralty, and then adverted to the 
-scandalous practices imputed to him with regard to 
Greenwich Hospital. Baillie knudged the person who 
sat next to him, and asked who I was. Being told that 
I had been just called to the bar, and had been formerly 
in the navy, Baillie exclaimed, 1 Then, by G—! I’ll 
have him for one of my counsel.’ 

“ I trudged down to Westminster-Hall, when 1 got 
the brief; and, being the junior of five who would be 
heard before me, never dreamed that the court would 
hear me at all. The argument came on. Dunning, 
Bearcroft, Wallace, Bower, Hargrave, were all heard 
at considerable length, and I was to follow. Hargrave 
was long-winded, and tired the court. It was a bad 
omen. But as my good fortune would have it, he was 
afflicted with the strangury, and was obliged to retire 
once or twice in the course of his argument. 

“ This protracted the cause so long, that when he 
had finished, Lord Mansfield said that the remaining 
counsel should be heard the next morning. This was 
exactly what I wished. 1 had the whole night to ar¬ 
range in my chambers what I had to say the next 
morning; and 1 took the court with their faculties 


118 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


awake and freshened, succeeded quite to my own satis¬ 
faction, (sometimes the surest proof that you have satis¬ 
fied others,) and, as 1 marched along the hall, after the 
rising of the judges, the attorneys flocked round me 
with their retainers. 1 have since flourished; but I 
have always blessed God for the providential strangury 
of poor Hargrave!” 

Erskine related this anecdote with those raptures of 
retrospection, which are among the richest luxuries of 
minds that have triumphed over fortune. His pleading 
for Captain Baillie will be long remembered as a 
splendid monument of his eloquence, which never 
arose to loftier heights than in the exposure of oppres¬ 
sion and injustice, and in dragging forth public corrup¬ 
tion to shame and infamy. It was a strong struggle 
against the court, and against Lord Mansfield in parti¬ 
cular, who once or twice exhorted him to moderate 
his language, but interposed with his usual mildness 
and urbanity. He went on, without abating one jot of 
his vehemence; and though a young man, who had 
never heard the sound of his own voice before in a 
court of law, he astonished the whole bar and the 
auditory by his intrepidity and firmness. The rule was 
dismissed. 

In the disturbed times of Pitt’s administration, when 
the French revolution had peopled men’s imaginations 
with so many appalling chimeras of change and insur¬ 
rection, and the terrors of criminal prosecutions spread 
a general panic amongst those who had distinguished 
themselves by their imprudent zeal for its doctrines, 
Erskine was always their undismayed advocate. 

He told us a remarkable anecdote of Lord Lough¬ 
borough in that season of political agitation. It was 


THE KING OE CLUBS. 


119 


about the period of Paine’s prosecution for his Rights 
of Man. Paine’s retainer was sent to Erskine, who 
accepted it. He was then, as it is well known, high in 
the confidence of the Prince of Wales, and officiated 
as attorney-general to that illustrious person. Certain 
persons, who had an undue but secret influence over 
the councils of Carlton-House, had impressed upon his 
excellent understanding, that Erskine would not, though 
acting under the strong obligation of a retainer, reconcile 
a defence of Paine to his duty as a law-officer to his 
Royal Highness. 

“ Shortly afterwards,” said Erskine, “ I happened to 
be walking home across Hampstead-Heath. It was a 
dark November evening. I met Loughborough coming 
in an opposite direction, apparently with the intention 
of meeting me. He was also on foot. ‘ Erskine,’ said 
he, 4 1 was seeking you; for I have something important 
to communicate to you.’—There was an unusual so¬ 
lemnity in his manner, and a deep hollowness in his 
voice. We were alone. The place was solitary. The 
dusk was gathering around us, and not a voice, nor a 
footstep was within hearing. I felt as Hubert felt, 
when John half opened, half suppressed the purpose of 
his soul in that awful conference, which Shakspeare 
has so finely imagined.—After a portentous pause, he 
began. 4 Erskine, you must not take Paine’s brief.’ 
1 But I have been retained, and I will take it, by G—,’ 
was my reply. The next day I was dismissed from the 
Prince’s council.” 

Adequately to estimate what Lord Erskine was, as 
a Nisi-Prius advocate, we must forget all that the 
English bar has produced after him. They will afford 
no criterion by which he can be appreciated. They 




120 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


are all of inferior clay:—the mere sweepings of the 
hall in comparison. Nor is it easy to form any tolerable 
idea of him, but by having seen him from day to day, 
from year to year, in the prime and manhood of his 
intellect, running with graceful facility through the 
chaos of briefs before him; and it is only by that per¬ 
sonal experience, that it is possible to form any notion 
of the admirable versatility with which he glided from 
one cause to another, the irony, the humour, the good¬ 
nature, with which he laughed down the adverse case, 
and the vehemence and spirit with which he sustained 
his own. 

Of the greater part of his Nisi-Prius conflicts, scarcely 
a memorial now exists. I shall not soon forget many 
of his puns, for to that equivocal species of wit, he was 
by no means indisposed, either in the court or at table. 
I particularly remember his opening a case, in which 
the plaintiff’ had brought his action against Christie, the 
celebrated auctioneer, to recover the deposit-money 
for an estate, which he had credulously purchased on 
Christie’s representation of its beauties. In one of 
those florid descriptions, which abounded in all Chris¬ 
tie’s advertisements, the house was stated as command¬ 
ing an extensive and beautiful lawn, with a distant 
prospect of the Needles, and as having amongst its 
numerous conveniences, an excellent billiard-room. 

“To show you, gentlemen,” said Erskine, “how 
egregiously my client has been deceived by the defend¬ 
ant’s rhetoric, I will tell you what this exquisite and 
enchanting place actually turned out to be, when my 
client, who had paid the deposit, on the faith of Mr. 
Christie’s advertisement, went down, in the fond anti¬ 
cipations of his heart, to this earthly paradise. When 


V 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 121 

he got there, nothing was found to correspond to what 
he had too unwarily expected. There was a house, to 
be sure, and that is all—for it was nodding to its fall, 
and the very 4 rats instinctively had quit it.’ It stood, 
it is true, in a commanding situation, for it commanded 
all the winds and rains of heaven. As for the lawn, he 
could find nothing that deserved the name—unless it 
was a small yard, in which, with some contrivance, a 
washerwoman might hang half a dozen shirts. There 
was, however, a dirty lane that ran close to it; and, 
perhaps, Mr. Christie may contend, that it was an error 
of the press, and therefore for lawn, I suppose we must 
read lane. 4 But where is the billiard-room?’ exclaimed 
the plaintiff, in the agony of disappointment. At last, 
he was conducted to a room in the attic, the ceiling of 
which was so low, that a man could not stand upright 
in it, and therefore must perforce put himself into the 
posture of a billiard player. Seeing this, Mr. Christie, 
by the magic of his eloquence, converted the place into 
a billiard-room . But the fine view of the Needles, gen¬ 
tlemen, where was it? No such thing was to be seen, 
and my poor client might as well have looked for a 
needle in a bottle of hay.” 

Never did the bar of England sustain such a loss as 
when the Whigs removed Erskine to the seals. It was 
transplanting an oak into a sandy soil: its roots were 
infected; its majestic arms became circumscribed and 
stinted, and its fine foliage, from that hour, drooped 
and withered. Had he been transplanted to a bishop- 
rick, it would not have been a more unnatural transi¬ 
tion. A pastoral charge would have been easier to him 
than a decree in equity. Yet he laboured unintermit- 
tingly to familiarize himself to the practice of Chancery; 

vol. ii.—11 


122 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


and he acquitted himself to the satisfaction of the bar, 
during the short sojourn he made there ; for there is an 
ubiquity in great minds, that will not permit it to be 
wholly out of place, wherever you fix it. He availed 
himself, too, of very able assistance; for his old friend 
Hargrave, whose strangury had been the foundation 
of his fortunes, rendered him most effectual service in 
finding cases for him, and shaping his decrees. 

It is, however, no mean praise to say of Lord Ers- 
kine, that in that splendid exaltation, which dizzies 
ordinary minds, and renders the hearts of men, who 
have been suddenly lifted up to high preferment, cold 
and insensible, and oblivious of old intercourses, he 
felt all the force and freshness of his early attachments. 
He was neither cold, nor reserved, nor distant to the 
humblest applications. I was induced, upon one occa¬ 
sion, to request his interposition, in a question likely to 
be agitated in the House of Lords, considering that his 
opinions would receive considerable authority from his 
high official character. I was then at a distance from 
England, where the murmur of British politics could 
not reach me, not calculating upon the probability, that 
the Whigs would, in the mean time, have knocked their 
heads against the Catholic subject, and that, before my 
application could reach them, they would have all been 
out of office. A little soreness, I think, is perceptible 
in it; and it shows also how the mind, under the vexa¬ 
tions of disappointed ambition, welcomes to herself the 
delusive anticipations of ease, and comfort, and tran¬ 
quillity, in the enjoyments of rural retirement. 

“Dear- 

“ I am afraid you will think me unkind in not writing 



THE KING OF CLUBS. 


123 


to you in answer to your friendly letter; but, I do 
assure you, that I remember you with true regard, and 
take the strongest interest in your welfare. The truth 
is, that we had gone out of office before 1 received the 
papers respecting * * * * * * *, and I have no reason 
to believe that any thing upon the subject is in agita¬ 
tion. If ever the matter is taken up, my regard for 
your opinions, and wishes, as well as the justice of the 
case, (as far as I am yet acquainted with it,) would in¬ 
duce me to do what little may now be in my power 
upon the matter you refer to. 

“ I am now retired (most probably for life), and am 
living what, for me, may be considered an idle, but I 
hope not an useless life, as I keep up my reading, in 
case the chances of this changeful world should give 
me the opportunity of turning it to public account. 

“ Should I, however, remain long out of a public sta¬ 
tion, I shall find healthful and interesting occupation in 
the cultivation of the grateful earth, who, if well culti¬ 
vated, is less capricious in the distribution of her 
favours than courts or princes. 

“ I frequently see our friend * * * * *, who never 
fails to express great regard for you ; and if it shall hap¬ 
pen that I can practically manifest my own, 1 shall be 
well pleased, I do assure you, to convince you, that I am 

Your very faithful, 

And sincere servant, 

London. Erskine.” 

' . ' ' C ' v. t < 

I have dwelt thus largely upon the character of my 
departed friend, because his history is that of the Eng¬ 
lish bar in its most flourishing period; nor should 1 
ever have forgiven myself, had I been capable of suf- 


124 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


suffering my enthusiasm for such a character (an 
enthusiasm, not the fruit of a hasty or transient ad¬ 
miration) to grow dim and languid with the waning 
brightness of his later years. 

But there were hearts that feasted upon his errors ; 
that told them with delight, and transmitted them, too, 
with the venomous exaggerations, that evil stories 
gather, as they run their round among uncharitable 
narrators : for he had then nothing left to attract their 
stupid gaze—nothing to bribe their idiotic applause. 
He had no table to feed the coxcombs that “ moed and 
chattered at him 1 ’—no glare of equipage to extort the 
vulgar deference paid to rank; his witticisms were 
pointless; even his intellect was said to decline with 
his finances. 

And this has happened to him, whose noble efforts 
placed triple ramparts, and erected adamantine de¬ 
fences, around the trial by jury; the precursor, in that 
great cause, of Mr. Fox himself, whose memorable bill 
is only the legislative record of the victory achieved by 
Erskine. To a man, whose forensic eloquence the 
puny pleaders of the present day, the lean shrivelled in¬ 
sects, that now hop about the Hall, may indeed strive 
to imitate, but are doomed never, never to reach. 

Where is the monument which we were told was to 
be erected by the English bar to his memory ? Whose 
was the base envy, the low-minded avarice of his own 
personal fame, that extinguished the project ? He is 
well known—the pertest, primmest pleader of the 
modern bar—the greatest among them in this day of its 
littleness. Honours may be showered upon him ; but 


“Ad populum phaleras, ego te intus, et in cute novi.” 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 


125 


How immeasurably below the masculine vigour of 
Erskine’s eloquence is the sophistical, wire-drawn 
rhetoric of this fortunate prater ! Probably, in mere 

scholarship, S- is somewhat superior; for Erskine 

was no clerk in that department of literature. His 
education, though completed at Cambridge, was desul¬ 
tory and broken, and, for many years, suspended by the 
duties of a naval, and afterwards of a military life ; and 
he entered the University, merely to save a certain 
number of terms at Lincoln’s Inn. But turn to his 
masterly speech for Stockdale:—What book-worm 
could have spun so varied and beauteous a tissue of 
moral and political reflection, of lofty and sublime im¬ 
agery ? His rays were native and unborrowed, but of 
the sun of his own imagination. ' 

Curran, the boast of the Irish bar, came three or four 
successive Saturdays to the King of Clubs. It was 
during a very short visit to London. On one occasion 
Erskine and Curran met there. I augured, perhaps 
too sanguinely, from the accident that brought together 
two men, considered as prodigies in their respective 
countries, and the conflict of two minds of equal, but 
very different powers; and 1 expected to see, with a 
delight partaking of awe, the confluence of those mighty 
streams of pleasantry and talent. 

I was disappointed. Curran was evidently not 
amongst congenial wits. At first he was obstinately 
mute. Towards the close of the evening, however, he 
told us some amusing anecdotes of the Four Courts. At 
first, his utterance was slow and drawling; but I re¬ 
marked, with astonishment, how the most apish of hu¬ 
man countenances, whose teeth and lips chattered, so 

as to make out a complete case for Lord Monboddo’s 
11 * 



126 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


hypothesis, how that countenance was lighted up, 
while its sunk and diminutive eyes, whose quick, wan¬ 
dering glances, indicated, to a superficial observation, 
an unfixed and unconcentrated intellect, gleamed, all 
at once, in flashes vivid as lightning, when he indignantly 
reverted to the wrongs of Ireland, whom he compared 
to Niobe, palsied with sorrow and despair over her 
freedom and her prosperity, struck dead before her. 
Then 1 began to perceive (not without shame for the 
temerity of my judgment) how imperfect an index his 
countenace exhibited of his intellectual character ; and 
I could easily imagine how such a being might have 
been the orator, whose resistless and overwhelming 
powers of eloquence and reason were wielded, not 
indeed successfully, yet triumphantly, in behalf of 
Hamilton Rowan, and fulmined upon the hoary-headed 
and titled adulterer,* whose unextinguishable lust he 
so finely compared to a volcano, blazing among the 
snows of Etna. 

Several barren witticisms, attributed to Curran, 
having, about this time, found their way into newspapers, 
and even into jest-books, he most vehemently disclaim¬ 
ed the greater part of them. To some (it was his 
phrase) he pleaded guilty ; and repeated a few of them, 
pointing out, with great accuracy, the names of persons, 
as well as the occasions, that called them forth. He 
also gave us some entertaining sketches of Lord Avon- 
more, Chief Justice of Ireland (Yelverton), the earliest 
friend of his youth, and companion of his studies. 

Lord Avonmore was subject to perpetual fits of 

* In the well known crim. con. case of the Rev. Mr. Massey 
against the Marquis of Headfort. 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 


127 


absence, and was frequently insensible to the conversa¬ 
tion that was going on. He was once wrapped in one 
of his wonted reveries ; and, not hearing one syllable 
of what was passing, (it was at a large professional 
dinner given by Mr. Bushe,) Curran, who was sitting 
next to his Lordship, having been called on for a toast, 
gave 44 All our absent friends,” patting, at the same time, 
Lord Avonmore on the shoulder, and telling him that 
they had just drunk his health. Quite unconscious of 
any thing that had been said for the last hour, and taking 
the intimation as a serious one, Avonmore rose, and 
apologizing for his inattention, returned thanks to the 
company for the honour they had done him by drink¬ 
ing his health. 

There was a curious character, a Serjeant Kelly, at 
the Irish bar. He was, in his day, a man of celebrity. 
Curran gave us some odd sketches of him. The most 
whimsical peculiarity, however, of this gentleman, and 
which, as Curran described it, excited a general grin, 
was an inveterate habit of drawing conclusions directly 
at variance with his premises. He had acquired the 
name of Counsellor Therefore. Curran said that he 
was a perfect human personification of a non sequitur. 
For instance, meeting Curran one Sunday near St. 
Patrick’s, he said to him, 44 The Archbishop gave us an 
excellent discourse this morning. It was well written 
and well delivered; therefore , I shall make a point of 
being at the Four Courts to-morrow at ten.” At 
another time, observing to a person whom he met in 
the street, 44 What a delightful morning this is for walk¬ 
ing !” he finished his remark on the weather, by saying, 
44 therefore, I will go home as soon as I can, and stir 
out no more the whole day.” 


128 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


His speeches in court were interminable, and his 
therefores kept him going on, though every one thought 
that he had done. The whole Court was in a titter 
when the Serjeant came out with them, whilst he him¬ 
self was quite unconscious of the cause of it. 

“ This is so clear a point, gentlemen,” he would tell 
the jury, “ that I am convinced you felt it to be so the 
very moment I stated it. I should pay your understand¬ 
ings but a poor compliment to dwell on it for a minute ; 
therefore , I shall now proceed to explain it to you as 
minutely as possible.” Into such absurdities did his 
favourite “therefore” betray him. 

Curran seemed to have no very profound respect for 

the character and talents of Lord N-, and omitted 

no opportunity of expressing what he thought of him. 
He deemed him a man, whose good qualities, and they, 
he said, were but few, lay only skin-deep ; a most ful¬ 
some flatterer, and his hospitality, to which he made 
high pretensions, was soured and rendered distasteful 
by his avarice. He dealt in general invitations, and 
rarely specified the day. Curran went down to Carlow 
on a special retainer. It was in a case of ejectment. 
A new Court-house had been recently erected, and it 
was found extremely inconvenient, from the echo, 
which reverberated the mingled voices ofjudge, counsel, 
crier, to such a degree, as to produce constant confusion, 

and great interruption of business. Lord N- had 

had been, if possible, more noisy that morning than ever. 
Whilst he was arguing a point with the counsel, and talk¬ 
ing very loudly, an ass brayed vehemently from the street 
adjoining the Court-house, to the instant interruption of 
the Chief Justice. “What noise is that?” exclaimed 
his Lordship. “ Oh, my Lord,” returned Curran, “ it 




THE KING OF CLUBS. 


129 


is merely the echo of the Court!” The judge felt the 
force of the repartee, and was evidently disconcerted 
for the rest of the day. 

This is nearly all that I can recollect of Curran at 
the King of Clubs. At a much later period, it was my 
good fortune to renew my acquaintance with him, at a 
dinner given to a select party by Alderman Wood, 
during the mayoralty of that gentleman. Curran had, 
in the mean while, been transplanted to the Rolls, as 
forced and unnatural a process as that of removing 
Erskine to the Court of Chancery; for Curran had not, 
in his judicial situation, one quality befitting it. In 
truth he was complexionally, and habitually, an extra¬ 
judicial character. As a lawyer, he was almost unread. 
He never perused his briefs, but employed Burton to 
note down the leading facts on which the case turned, 
and if it was a law argument to hunt the books for 
precedents. This vicarious employment gradually 
brought Burton himself into considerable business. 
But Curran, as a general advocate, and more especially 
when he had to deal in high constitutional and popular 
topics, was alone and unrivalled. On the other hand, 
his unfitness for the Rolls was felt by the whole bar; 
nor was he unconscious of it himself. In a year or 
two he became so uneasy in his situation, that he ap¬ 
plied for his pension and retired. 

At the renewal of our acquaintance, Curran was 
living at Brompton, and not in very splendid lodgings. 
He gave, however, several pleasant dinner parties; but 
his health was declining, and his spirits apparently 
broken. Yet, in spite of corporeal decay, his wonted 
fires burst out frequently in conversation, particularly 
as he recounted the incidents of his early life, or sketched 


130 


THE CLUBS OF LONDON. 


the characters of his legal contemporaries. Then it 
was that he seemed renovated to youth—to enjoy the 
bis vivere , the xita potiore of Martial. 

I remember well how offended he was, \\;hen some 

one at table observed that Charles P-, who had 

just published a volume of his own speeches, belonged 
to Curran’s school of oratory, and that many critics 
traced a strong resemblance of style and manner to the 
greatest of his own speeches. 44 Don’t mention the 
fellow’s name,'’ exclaimed Curran. 44 If his speeches 
are like my own, it is but the resemblance of the ape 
to the man, which only aggravates the animal’s de¬ 
formity.” 

Shiel, the Roman Catholic demagogue, was there. 
He had written a tragedy expressly for Miss 0‘Niel, 
and the conversation turning on the piece, which was 
then in preparation at Covent-Garden, 44 Shiel,” said 
Curran, 44 you know how I regard you. But I cannot 
better show that regard than by praying to Heaven that 
your tragedy may be damned. Your lawful wife is the 
law—stick to her—and don’t insult her by your licen¬ 
tious gallantries with the drama.” 

Curran said that he never went a hunting but once; 
and that was at a friend’s house about twenty miles 
from Dublin. They had perched him, he said, upon a 
self-willed animal, that would not listen to any reason, 
but was fretting and pulling, and making every effort 
to get into a full gallop, when they were throwing off 
the hounds. “ I wanted to get off,” continued Curran, 
“ but the cunning brute would not let me dismount, 
preferring to keep me on his back for the mere purpose 
of tormenting me.” “You were alarmed, then, Cur¬ 
ran, ’ some one observed. 44 Yes, yes, but not at my 



131 


THE KING OF CLUBS. 

horse. My great fear was that the dogs would find. 
By good luck it was a bad day for hunting, and they 
did not find. It was upon that occasion that I made an 
execrable Joke. The hounds had broke through a 
hedge that bounded a potatoe ground belonging to a 
rich, substantial agent. Seeing me (for I had given 
him, a few days before, a long bout of cross-examina¬ 
tion in the court of King’s Bench), the fellow came up 
to me, and said, 4 Oh, sure you are Counsellor Curran, 
the great lawyer. Now then, Mr. Lawyer, can you 
tell me by what law you are trespassing on my ground?’ 
4 By what law, Mr. Malony,’ I replied; 4 why by the 
lex tally-oh-nis to be sure.’ The pun succeeded, the 
whole party laughed, and the man went grumbling off.” 




i *' 



132 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES, 


JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 

John Horne Tooke was, perhaps, the most extra¬ 
ordinary man of the period in which he lived. Scarcely 
any political occurrence happened in which he did not 
take an active part. During his long life of seventy- 
seven years, he witnessed more revolutions of politics 
and of parties than any other man; and in all of them 
his talents and indefatigable spirit were exerted either 
on one side or the other. 

In noticing some of the traits of this remarkable 
man’s character, it will be necessary to touch briefly 
upon the principal events of his life. His father, whose 
name was Horne, was a poulterer in Westminster, and 
was, to say the least, in very comfortable circumstances, 
if not rich. Anxious to bestow the best education upon 
his son, whom he intended for the church, he sent him 
first to Westminster School, and then to St. John’s Col¬ 
lege, Cambridge; at both which seminaries he distin¬ 
guished himself by talent and assiduity. On entering 
into holy orders, he was, under the patronage of the 
Duke of Newcastle, immediately inducted into the 
lucrative living of Brentford, where he continued for 
twenty-four years; during which time, however, he 
never quitted the field of politics. 



JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 


133 


During the commotions raised by Wilkes, the Rever¬ 
end Mr. Horne espoused the popular side; and when 
the “ favourite of the people” was disappointed in 
being returned to serve in parliament, in 1768, he 
exerted the whole of his power and influence in pro¬ 
curing his election for Middlesex; which Herculean 
task he at length achieved by canvassing town and 
country ; by soliciting votes and subscriptions ; and by 
opening houses of entertainment for the voters. 

Wilkes and he, however, soon afterwards quarrelled; 
for Mr. Horne did not find, when his turn was served, 
that Mr. Wilkes was the red-hot patriot that he had pre¬ 
tended. A paper war ensued, in which the celebrated 
* 

Junius took a part. It was during this dispute, that 
the Rector of Brentford and the City Chamberlain 
meeting one day, upbraided each other for the several 
parts they took. At length, Horne told Wilkes that 
“ he was a renegado from the cause of liberty; and that 
he ought to blush for his lukewarmness.”—“You are 
mistaken, my dear parson,” replied Wilkes, “ I never 
was a Wilkite!” 

Mr. Horne was a powerful advocate for American 
independence; but, in his zeal for liberty, he was so 
imprudent as to open and advertise a subscription u for 
the relief of our unfortunate brethren in America , who 
were basely murdered by the British troops at Lexing¬ 
ton .”—For this he was prosecuted and imprisoned in 
the King’s-Bench. 

All hope of ecclesiastical preferment being at an end, 
or rather having imbibed the free opinions of the period, 
Mr. Horne, soon after his release from prison, threw off 
his canonicals, resigned the living of Brentford, and 
entered the Society of the Inner Temple; where he 

VOL. II. —12 


134 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


kept strict terms, and studied the law as a profession. 
In due time, the period arrived when he ought to have 
been called to the bar; but, when he put in his claim, 
the benchers refused to admit him on the ground that 
“ the clerical character was indelible and that, “hav¬ 
ing been in holy orders, they would not countenance 
so indecent and impious a desertion of his former pro¬ 
fession.”—In this rejection, however, it was believed 
that political, or party feeling had more weight than 
any desire to preserve the purity of religion. 

Although he was now a layman in fact, and without 
a profession whereby to earn a livelihood, Mr. Horne’s 
abilities were duly appreciated by the leaders of the 
political parties on each side; and he certainly was of 
great use to Mr. Fox, by whom he was held in great 
consideration; and with whom he remained for many 
years on terms of strict intimacy and friendship. 

In 1790, he, Mr. Fox, and Lord Hood stood as can¬ 
didates for Westminster; but, from mismanagement, 
Mr. Tooke did not succeed in his wish to represent 
that city. 


It is now time that the reader should be informed of 
the cause, and of all the circumstances connected with 
Mr. Horne’s change of name. 

An elderly gentleman, named Tooke , who had made 
a large fortune as a merchant in the African Company, 
bought some lands in Lincolnshire; but, the title being 
supposed to be defective, the crown set up a claim for 
them, and the attorney-general was employed to con¬ 
duct the case. Mr. Tooke had heard of the rejection 
of Mr. Horne by the benchers of the Inner Temple, 



JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 


135 


said he conceived that this exclusion was no proof of 
his being an unsound lawyer. He according applied 
to him; and Mr. Horne having solicited the suit, had 
the good fortune to defeat the crown lawyers. 

Mr. Tooke was altogether so well pleased with his 
success, that he became strongly attached to his solicit¬ 
or, and invited him to reside with him at his house in 
Westminster; which he did for several years. Their 
friendship was, if possible, strengthened by John Horne 
assuming the surname of his patron, and attaching it to 
his own; so that from hence forward he was known 
as, and signed his name, “John Horne Tooke .’ 1 During 
this intercourse, Mr. Horne Tooke, having no profes¬ 
sional means of earning money, was obliged, on several 
occasions, to borrow from old Mr. Tooke; and the 
latter willingly accommodated him, at the rate of five 
hundred pounds at a time; but, in accordance with his 
mercantile habits, the old man always took care to have 
his bond, bearing interest, for whatever sum he ad¬ 
vanced; although he had frequently told his protege 
that he should be the sole heir to his immense property. 

At length Horne Tooke discovered that his patron 
had a nephew, who had at some time offended him, 
and whom the old gentleman had refused to see for 
several years. This was a Colonel Harwood, to whom 
Horne contrived to be introduced, and whom he found 
to be a gentleman of refined manners and great intelli¬ 
gence. 

Resolved to effect a reconciliation between the 
relatives, he said one day, “ I understand, my dear sir, 
that you have a nephew.” 

“ And how dare you, sir, mention that circumstance 
to me ?” returned the old man, reddening with anger. 


136 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


“I beg your pardon, Mr. Tooke,” replied Horne; 
“ but I thought the intelligence of Colonel Harwood 
being in London might be agreeable to you.” 

44 Quite the reverse, sir,” responded Mr. Tooke ; 
“ and if you regard my favour, you will never mention 
his name in my hearing.” 

44 Upon my word, sir,” rejoined Horne, 44 1 don't 
understand this. It is very possible that you may have 
cause—-just cause of complaint; nay, sufficient to war¬ 
rant you in discarding this newly found relative of 
yours ; but, by G—d ! I must and shall know the rea¬ 
son. For your friendship and kindness towards myself, 
I trust that 1 have not been—nay, I defy you to say 
that I have ever been—ungrateful; but, as I have en¬ 
joyed your confidence so long, I consider that I have 
a right to know why you treat your own sister’s son as 
a stranger.” 

“Mind your own business, Master Horne” returned 
the old man, highly chafed, but suppressing his rage, 
“or perhaps it may be worse for you; I can alter my 
mind , you know. 

44 This is my business, Master Tooke” retorted 
Horne, 44 and 1 demand an explanation; if your nephew 
deserves your unkindness, so; I shall take upon me to 
judge between you.” 

44 Will you?” interrupted the old man, with a sneer: 
44 Upon my word, you are a meddling jackanapes ; and, 
if you say another word, I’ll not leave you a shilling.” 

44 1 care little about that,” replied the dutiful jsro/cgc ; 
44 and now that we are upon equal terms , I will, with 
all due deference, tell you a little more of my mind; 
and that is, that if you will give me a good reason for 
your unnatural behaviour to Colonel Harwood, I shall 


JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 


137 


remain with you on the same terms as hitherto; but if 
you will not do that, or if, being unable to do so, you 
persist in rejecting the friendly advances of your affec¬ 
tionate nephew, I shall have done with you for ever; 
and I shall neither eat nor sleep in your house after 
this night; so, for the present, I will leave you to your 
reflections.” 

a Stop ! stop !” exclaimed the old man, softening; 
“upon my word, Master Horne Tooke, you give your¬ 
self airs that neither become you, nor suit me. How¬ 
ever, saucy varlet, as you are, you have justice on your 
side, and I suppose I must submit to your dictation as 
usual, and be d—d to you.” 

“Oh! don’t let it be said, sir,” exclaimed Horne, 
“ that my dictation”- 

“Hold your tongue, sir,” interrupted the querulous 
old man: “sit down, and you shall hear what a diso¬ 
bedient villain that Harwood is. In the first place— 
but, pray, sir, may I beg to be informed, as to what in¬ 
terest, or motive, you can have in thus diving into 
family affairs ?” 

“ No interest, sir, whatever,” replied Horne ; “ and 
the only motive that I have, is a love of justice; for 1 
could not bear that your nephew should be estranged 
from you, whilst I ate your bread, and drank of your 
cup. Besides, what must the world think of you; and 
indeed of me, too, did I countenance this banishment 
of your near relatives ?” 

The old man was satisfied with this explanation, and 
recounted to Mr. Tooke several petty circumstances of 
supposed offence on the part of Colonel Harwood; 
but his auditor soon explained, or rather argued , away 

all differences ; and he had the satisfaction of carrying 
12 * 



138 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


an invitation to the Colonel, to dine with his uncle 
the next day. 

The old gentleman was so pleased with his nephew, 
that he gave him a general invitation to his house ; and, 
at length, he became so attached, that he would have 
him become an inmate. This arrangement was soon 
acceded to ; and John Horne Tooke took advantage of 
it, for the more convenient pursuance of his studies in 
philology; for which purpose he took the house in 
Purley Bottom, where he composed the principal por¬ 
tion of his famous work, entitled “ Diversions.” 

But, as it was impossible for old Mr. Tooke to be 
totally deprived of his company, John Horne arranged 
his plans so as to live in the house in Westminster one 
month, and in his own the next, and so on. Colonel 
Harwood, too, by this plan, secured six months of 
liberty during the year; for, whilst Horne Tooke was 
with his uncle, he pursued his own affairs elsewhere. 

As a reward for their assiduity in contributing to his 
amusement and comfort, Mr. Tooke invariably told 
them, when they met together, that they should be his 
joint and sole heirs; but, unfortunately, if either of 
them vexed him, or became cavillers, during his month 
of servitude, he would invariably tell him that “ he 
would disinherit him, and leave all his property to the 
other!” 

He had threatened each in this manner so often, that 
at length, upon comparing notes, it became a moot 
point whether Tooke, or Harwood, or both, should 
inherit the riches of this testy old man. Accordingly, 
they laid their heads together, and agreed, that which¬ 
ever should be declared heir by will , should divide 
equally with his friend. This ingenious mode of defeat- 


JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 


139 


mg the threats of the old gentleman, caused many a 
laugh between them. 

But, alas ! human foresight is often but of little avail, 
after all! The old merchant 44 died one day,” and left 
neither Mr. Horne Tooke, nor his nephew, half a 
crown ! He bequeathed the whole of his immense pro¬ 
perty to the son of another sister, in the city of Nor¬ 
wich, a person whom, it is doubtful, whether he ever 
saw. 

Here was a disappointment, which, however, Horne 
Tooke submitted to with great philosophy. The name 
of the lucky heir was Beazely, son of an alderman of 
that name.* He and his father, of course, came to 
London to take possession, when a meeting of the rela¬ 
tives took place in the old gentleman’s late residence. 
After dinner, young Beazely got up, and, to the surprise 
of every one, said, that it was too bad for 44 Cousin 
Harwood to be cut out, and he was determined that he 
should have half.” The father embraced his son, say¬ 
ing, 44 There’s my own boy!—you ha’ just done the 
very thing that I was thinking o’, and ye won’t thrive 
the worse for doing a good action.” 

Colonel Harwood, accordingly, received seventy-two 
thousand pounds in cash, and called upon Horne Tooke 


* This Beazely was the alderman alluded to in a late Number of 
the New Monthly Magazine, in the article Parriana, where Dr. 
Parr gives an account of the master whom he succeeded in Norwich 
School. This pedagogue wrote a Dictionary of the English Lan¬ 
guage, and some of his definitions were comical enough. It seems 
that he published his book by subscription, and Beazely having re¬ 
fused to expend half a guinea on the work, the learned lexicogra¬ 
pher popped down his name out of revenge. The word beastly stood 
thus:—“B eastly,— a corruption of Beazely:— any thing fat , 
gross , or nasty” 


140 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


with the news. The latter, who had several visiters 
with him, congratulated him upon his good fortune; 
and, after further compliments, his visiter said, “You 
know, Mr. Tooke, you have no positive right to any of 
this money, as it was obtained upon a different tack to 
what our joint expectations were; but'’- 

“ By no means,” returned Tooke, “ I have no right 
to it whatever; it was the free-will gift of your cousin ; 
and 1 wish you health and long life to enjoy it. There¬ 
fore don’t say another word upon the subject.” 

“ O, but I shall,” exclaimed Harwood, “ and I shall 
insist that you have some of the money; it is only your 
due, for the friendly manner in which you reconciled 
me with my uncle; and, although he has done us both, 
that is no reason why I should neglect you. Therefore, 
tell me candidly, now, how much will be sufficient to 
make you comfortable ?” 

“ You are very kind, Harwood,” said Tooke, u at a 
word, then, if 1 had four hundred a year for myself and 
the girls (his natural daughters), I should be quite 
happy, and be enabled to leave them independent when 
1 am gone.” 

“ You shall have it, Tooke,” said the Colonel, writing 
—“ there is a check upon Coutts for eight thousand 

Tooke, of conrse, returned many thanks, and the 
friends parted mutually pleased with each other:—but 
behold! when the check was presented next morning, 
the bearer was told that its payment had been stopped, 
at the bank two hours before. It seems that Colonel 
Harwood had been wrought upon by some of his rela¬ 
tions, or that he, himself, had repented his generosity 
in the course of one short night. 




JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 


141 


This treatment was worse than childish; it was in¬ 
tolerable ; and, as there were several witnesses to the 
gift, Mr. Tooke was advised to throw the matter into a 
Court of Equity. This was done: and, as is the cus¬ 
tom in all Chancery matters, the suit was so long de¬ 
ciding, that the plaintiff, infirm as he was, at length 
ordered himself to be carried into Court, on his bed , 
where he spoke his mind so freely to the Chancellor, 
that a decision was given in a few days, in his favour of 
course. Among other severe things, Mr. Tooke said to 
Lord Eldon, that “it appeared he (his Lordship) de¬ 
termined to withhold the bread from his lips until he 
had no teeth to chew it.” 


Of the part taken by Mr. Tooke in advocating the 
principles of the French revolution, and a Reform in 
the British Parliament, and of his trial for treason , it is 
unnecessary here to speak; such matters pertaining to 
the province of history. It is sufficient to notice, that 
he and his companions were acquitted, to the great 
satisfaction of the public, and the honour of a British 
jury; but, to the consternation of the people in power, 
who were convinced thereby, that they could not carry 
things with so high a hand as they had imagined and 
designed.* 

* Certain very remarkable and mysterious circumstances, attend¬ 
ing Horne Tooke’s arrest and trial, were divulged soon after his 
death; for obvious reasons they were kept in profound secrecy 
during the lives of the principal actors. The publisher of the 
Report of the Trial, in allusion to Lord Erskine’s speech, said, that 
“ it required no other introduction, or preface, than an attentive 
perusal of the case of Thomas Hardy, the charge being the same , and 
the evidence not materially different. In fact it was difficult to imagine 
upon what ground the Attorney General could have expected to obtain 



142 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


In 1801, it is well known, that Lord Camelford pro¬ 
cured the return of Mr. Tooke as Member for old 
Sarum. He kept his seat from February until May, 

a verdict against Tooke , after Mr. Hardy's acquittal; more particu¬ 
larly, as several of the jury upon Hardy’s trial, had also been sworn 
as jurors upon Tooke’s. Be that as it may, the following narrative 
develops this mystery, and explains the object and resources of 
Pitt and his colleagues :— 

“ At the period when the sensations excited in England, by the 
burst of liberty in France, were in full exercise, Horne Tooke gave 
a weekly entertainment, at which the leaders of the party he es¬ 
poused were generally present; and political discussions were 
carried on with a freedom which soon attracted the notice of the 
government. 

“ On one of these occasions, a northern Member of Parliament 
was introduced by a friend, who represented him to be ‘a man of 
independent principles , and firmly attached to the cause of Reform.' 
At a subsequent meeting, this person proposed, that Mr. Tooke 
should compose a speech for him, on a popular subject, which was 
shortly to be debated in the house. This was accordingly done, and 
it was delivered; but it drew forth not a single observation from 
any of the opposite party; and the question was lost without any 
notice of the arguments it contained. 

“ Another was then proposed, which Mr. Tooke recommended to 
be accompanied by a motion for increasing the pay of the navy. One 
of the party remarked, that such a motion would create a mutiny. 
‘ That' said Mr. Tooke, 4 is the very thing we want.' 

“ What followed, it is unnecessary to add; for their plans were 
frustated by the arrest of Mr. Tooke and his friends the next day, 
on a charge of high treason! 

“ At an early period of his imprisonment, while he was one day 

occupied in conjectures on the immediate cause of his arrest, and 

the nature of the evidence by which the charge against him was to 

be supported, one of the attendants informed him that a person 

wished to speak to him. Mr. Tooke desired that he miffht be ad- 

© 

mitted; and a gentleman was introduced, whose person was partially 
concealed in a large cloak. 

“ After a short general conversation, and the attendant having 
withdrawn, the stranger asked the prisoner whether he was aware 


JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 


143 


when he was compelled to vacate by the votes of the 
House; which declared him incompetent to sit, on the 
same grounds as those put forward by the benchers of 

of the circumstances which led to his arrest, and of the person who 
gave the information. Being answered in the negative, ‘ Then, 
Sir,’ said the stranger, ‘ I now apprise you, that the proposal and 
remark made by you , on the subject of increasing the pay of the navy , 
form the ground of the charge ; and the only witness, on whose 
evidence they expect to convict you, is the very person who was to 
deliver the speech. I am a member of His Majesty’s Privy Council, 
amongst whom it is in debate— whether that person shall be produced 
as a witness on the part of the Crown , or whether they shall suffer you 
to call him up for the defence , and so convict you out of the mouth of 
your own witness. When that shall have been decided, you will see 
me again.’ 

“ After this nobleman’s departure, Mr. Tooke sent for two of his 
confidential friends, and, after communicating to them the circum¬ 
stances, addressed one of them (a Norfolk gentleman) to the follow¬ 
ing effect:—‘You must go to this scoundrel, and tell him, I intend 
to subpoena him as a witness ; and you must represent to him, that 
unless he interests himself powerfully in my behalf, I shall be lost; 
that my whole dependance is on him , as the strength of my defence 
will rest upon the evidence he may adduce. Add every argument 
you can invent to convince him that I consider my life entirely at 
his mercy, and that I look upon him as my best friend: in short, 
that all is lost without his friendship and support.’ 

“ The result was, that the strongest assurances of friendship were 
given; and, the next morning, the Privy Counsellor again visited 
Mr. Tooke, and informed him that the council had finally determined 
that he should be allowed to call him for the defence, when the At¬ 
torney General should elicit the necessary evidence by cross-examina¬ 
tion. At this interview, Mr. Tooke, on the part of himself and his 
friends, entered into a solemn obligation never to divulge the affair, 
until after the death of the nobleman, who had thus hazarded his 
own life to save that of a friend. 

“ During the interval previous to the trial, frequent communica¬ 
tions took place between Mr. Tooke’s friends and the northern 
member, by which he, as well as his employers, were completely 
cajoled ; and, when the trial took place, they were so sure of their 





144 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


the Inner Temple, when they refused to call him to the 
bar. 

Horne Tooke led a retired life at Wimbledon, except 
on Sundays, which were his public days. On these he 
saw company, and provided very handsome entertain¬ 
ment for all who had the honour of being introduced 
to him. These dinners were frequented by many of 
the political, literary, and professional men of the 
period; all of whom contributed to the intellectual 
portion of the feast. His immediate friends, Sir Francis 
Burdett, Colonel Boswell, &c. in as delicate a manner 
as possible, took care that the expenses attendant on 
the more solid parts of the treat afforded at these agree¬ 
able meetings, should fall lightly on the purse of their 
host; for, although Mr. Tooke possessed a comfortable 
competence for his own family, he had not a sufficient 
income to defray the heavy charges attendant on the 
entertainment of so many guests. His friends took 
upon themselves to supply his hospitable table by 

victim, as to have had hundreds of warrants ready , to be issued for the 
apprehension of the friends of Reform, in all parts of the country. 

“ But what was their astonishment and mortification, when they 
found, after the case on the part of the Crown had been gone through, 
and closed, that the witness in question was not called up at all , though 
in attendance, and eager to finish his infamous part in this intended 
tragedy ! Mr. Tooke left his case as it stood ; and, upon the sum¬ 
ming up, the honesty and good sense of the jury prevailed over 
the malevolence of the enemies to freedom. 

“ The Attorney General and his employers were thunderstruck : 
and, after the verdict of acquittal was pronounced, the learned judge 
remarked to a person who stood near him, ‘ That the evidence for 
the Crown was certainly insufficient to convict the prisoner, after 
the fate of the indictment of Hardy; but, what motives Mr. Tooke 
had for not calling certain witnesses in his defence, after having sub¬ 
poenaed them, were best known to himself.’ ” 


JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 


145 


innumerable presents of wine, fish, venison, and game 
of all kinds. 


For Sir Francis Burdett, Mr. Tooke felt a strong 
attachment; and the Baronet was not backward in 
evincing for him, in return, the most cordial and ardent 
friendship. In his last moments, it afforded him great 
satisfaction to observe Sir Francis, and others most 
dear to him, surrounding his bed. Having fallen into 
a lethargy, and being supposed to be entirely insensible, 
his friend mixed up a cordial for him, which Mr. Clive 
and Dr. Pearson advised him not to administer, as it 
would be to no purpose ; but the Baronet persevering, 
and raising Mr. Tooke, the latter opened his eyes, and 
seeing who offered the draught, took the glass and 
eagerly drank off the contents. 

Horne Tooke was cheerful and facetious to the last: 
when informed that he had but a short time to live, he 
observed, that “ he should not be like the man who, 
being condemned to die at Strasburg, requested time to 
pray, until the patience of the magistrates was exhaust¬ 
ed; and who, afterwards, as a last expedient, begged 
their permission to close life by a game at his favourite 
amusement of nine pins’, but who kept bowling on, 
resolved not to finish the game until the hour for 
execution was past.” 

He particularly desired to be buried in his garden at 
Wimbledon; that no funeral ceremony should take 
place on the occasion; but that he should be borne to 
the grave by six of the poorest men in the parish; each 
of whom was to receive one guinea. These wishes, 
however, were not complied with, his friends judging 

VOL. II.— 13 



146 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


it to be more proper that his body should be deposited 
in the family vault at Ealing. 

It is surprising that a man of Tooke’s liberal and 
expanded mind should have made so unequal a distri¬ 
bution of his property among his children. For some 
reason, known only to himself, he appointed his daugh¬ 
ter, Mary Heart, his sole executrix, and bequeathed to 
her the whole of his estate and effects, except one or 
two hundred pounds to her sister! 


Horne Tooke, though a man of liberal sentiments, 
was so far a despot in his family, that the inmates were 
afraid sometimes to speak, move, or do any thing which 
might offend him. On one occasion, Sir Francis Bur- 
dett’s house being full, O’Connor slept at Tooke’s. 
Next morning, coming into the breakfast-room, and 
having saluted the family, he sat down at a little round 
table with Mr. Tooke, where the latter was accustomed 
to breakfast alone. 

His daughters, seeing this, appeared very uneasy, 
and made signs to the stranger to sit at the large table. 
“ O, no,” said O’Connor; “ I am very well here—I 
shall breakfast with my old friend.” 

“ So you shall, rebel,” said Mr. Tooke, bursting into 
a loud laugh, and enjoying the embarrassment of his 
daughters :—“Girls, bring O’Connor’s cup to my table: 
by G—d ! rebel, you are the only person that has sat 
down to breakfast with me these eighteen years !” 



JOHN HORNE TOOKE. 


147 


DROLL SPECIMEN OF COURAGE. 

Mr. Tooke was by no means a man of courage; 
although, from his bold writings, one might fancy him 
a hero; a champion ready to defend his opinions with 
sword or pistol, or even with his fist. One would think 
that the man who, in answer to an attack of Junius, 
could write such words as the following, must be a 
person of no ordinary nerve. They were these:— 
44 The king, whose actions justify rebellion to his govern¬ 
ment, deserves death from the hand of every subject; 
and, should such a time arrive, I should he as free to 
act as any” He made use of a similar remarkable 
expression in regard to the unfortunate King James, in 
reference to the desertion of his army. Still Mr. Tooke 
knew himself to be entirely destitute of real courage; 
and he confessed to an intimate friend that he was a 
coward. 44 1 should have made but a bad soldier,’ 7 
said he, one day, laughing, 44 for I have been all my 
life a complete coward: bravery is engendered by a 
long habit of fearlessness of danger, in a heart natu¬ 
rally bold; I never had much of this sort of stamina; 
and, during the restless life which 1 have led, the little 
portion of courage I possessed, oozed out at my finger 
ends, from the continual fret and worry in which I have 
been kept. I will tell you the boldest, the bravest, the 
most courageous thing I ever did in my whole life. 1 
was at a meeting at Croydon, where, having stood for¬ 
ward to advocate a certain question, I was sharply 
attacked by a fellow of the name of Phillips; but, 
however, I gave him such a dressing in reply, that, 
even whilst I went on tearing him in pieces at every 


148 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


sentence, 1 was actually afraid that he would horsewhip 
me when I had done, or send me a challenge to fight 
him. A pretty thing, by the by, it would be to see two 
parsons, with a pair of pistols under their arms, saluting 
each other, at the early hour of five, on a cold frosty 
morning ! O, yes, I gave the Reverend Mr. Phillips such 
a drubbing, that even I myself was surprised at it.” 

“ Did his Reverence take no notice of it then ?” 

u Not a word, faith! By G—d! he was as great a 
coward as I was myself! But, let me tell you, sir, the 
affair was no less heroic on my part; for I thought him 
as brave as a lion, and I dare say my words made him 
think the same of me. I assure you, sir, it requires no 
small degree of pluck—when you have not the law at 
your back—to beard a stout bully-looking fellow to his 
very teeth; when, perhaps, the next morning he may 
send a bullet through your brains.” 


SHALL AND WILL. 

An Irish gentleman speaking one day to Mr. Tooke 
on the propensity of many of his own countrymen, 
and all Scotchmen, to use the word will instead 
of shall, and vice-versa, inquired of him what rule 
ought to be followed to avoid falling into this kind of 
blunder. 

“ It is merely a matter of taste,” answered the gram¬ 
marian ; “ but, if you wish to make yourself understood 
by an Englishman, the best rule you can adopt, that 1 
know of, is, when you find yourself inclined to use the 



SHALL AND WILL. 


149 


word will, say shall ; and when shall comes to the tip 
of your tongue, stop it, and say will” 

“ But that is a rule of contrary,” observed the gen¬ 
tleman. “ I wish you would be so good as to give me 
a reason; for, as I am apt to make this sort of mistake, 
l should be glad to have something impressed on my 
mind which would be a kind of beacon to prevent me 
from committing myself.” 

“ Shall is a verb, and may be Englished by must. 
Take care then of the idea , and look at the power of 
the nominative. 

“Will is also a verb, and is, simply, to will or 
desire. 

“ But there may be actions that are indifferent either 
to compulsion or desire. These are simple futures , and 
might be expressed by may or may happen. We want 
a word for this simple future , and are compelled, in 
lieu of a better, to make use of shall and will ; 
which, of themselves, have a fixed meaning, and are 
neither of them applicable to a simple future. In this 
case, either is naturally as good as the other. The 
Scotch, and many of the Irish, have taken one side: 
the English the other. Both are equally correct in fact; 
or rather equally wrong: but both Scotch and Irish¬ 
men must write English ; and here the difficulty lies. 

“ The Germans have a third verb for a simple future, 
viz. — werden, to become: —as Ich werde, I am to 
become. This is partially English, and accounts for the 
use of our word were, which has puzzled the gram¬ 
marians in phrases such as ‘ Were I to do this'— i It were 
ivise to do so,' &c. 

“Would and should are governed by, and fetter 

the rules for, shall and will.” 

13 * 


150 


SLPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


Sir Francis Burdett one evening was speaking most 
affectionately of his grandfather; and, among other 
agreeable recollections of the days of his boyhood, he 
stated that his progenitor had been also in the habit 
of playing a game at whist every night: 44 and it is 
curious,” he added, “that one night,just as he had 
said, 4 Clubs were trumps !’ and won the game, he fell 
back in his chair and expired!” 

Curran, who had not yet said a good thing, instantly 
observed, 44 Baronet, you surely have made a mistake : 
he must have said 4 Spades were trumps ” and point¬ 
ed significantly towards the ground, as if in the act of 
digging. 


JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


John Philpot Curran was, on one occasion, the 
subject of conversation at Brookes’s, when several 
amusing anecdotes were related of his wit, eloquence, 
and ingenuity ; a few of which are as follow :— 

Mrs. Lefanu, sister to Mr. Sheridan, was very fond 
of dramatic entertainments ; and at one time had a very 
neat private theatre fitted up at her own house. The 
play of Douglas being cast, the hostess herself, who 
was a remarkably fat woman , chose to enact the part 
of Lady Randolph; and hand-bills were accordingly 
distributed among the amateurs and their friends, an¬ 
nouncing the performance. On the morning of the 
day on which the entertainment was to take place, a 
gentleman met Mr. Curran, who had just returned from 
a professional tour, and begged the favour of his com¬ 
pany that night to Mrs. Lefanu’s; at the same time 
telling him that the lady herself was going to perform ; 
and bidding him guess what part she had chosen. 

u What part!” replied Curran, “ One of the Gram¬ 
pian hills , I suppose. 1 know no other part in the play 
that will suit her.” 

In the year 1790, the representation of the County 
of Down was strongly disputed between the eldest 
son of the then Lord Hilsborough, and the late Lord 
Castlereagh; and amongst the lawyers engaged for 
the occasion was Mr. William Downes, afterwards 
Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. Previously to his 


152 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


setting out for Downpatrick, Mr. Downes happened to 
meet Curran, to whom he mentioned that he was re¬ 
tained for one of the parties; and added, that he was 
sorry to understand that much ill-will was expected to 
display itself—insomuch that it was not unlikely but 
that the partisans of the candidates would proceed to 
duelling and bloodshed. “For my part,” continued 
he, “I shall keep clear of every subject but that con¬ 
nected with my professional duties.” 

“No doubt,” said Curran, “you are perfectly well 
prepared.” 

“ O yes,” replied Downes, “ I have made myself 
master of all the election cases.” 

“ Very good,” replied Curran; “yet, however de¬ 
sirous you may be of keeping yourself clear of contro¬ 
versy and quarrels, some irritable bully may run foul of 
you; therefore, I would recommend strongly that you 
should have Wogderi's case at your fingers ’ ends” 
“Wogden’s case!” observed Downes, with surprise, 
“ I never heard of that case before—I am much obliged 
to you, my dear fellow, for mentioning it—where shall 
I find the report of it?” ~ ^1’ 

“ I am surprised,” returned Curran, “ that you, so 
conversant with elections, should never have heard the 
report of Wogden’s case!—There are twenty shops in 
town where you can procure the case itself.” 

Mr. Downes, pleased with the hint, deferred his 
journey towards the theatre of war for that day; the 
whole of which he employed in ransacking every book¬ 
seller’s shop in Dublin.—At length, he mentioned his 
difficulty to a brother barrister, whom he met; and 
was not a little confounded when the latter, readily 
taking the joke, burst into a loud laugh at his simplicity, 


JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


153 


and told him, “ instead of continuing his researches 
among the booksellers, to step across the street to a 
gunsmith's shop , where he would find the case in a 
minute!” 

It is well known that the gentlemen of the Irish bar 
have a species of wit peculiar to themselves—dry and 
sarcastic—acquired, in a great measure, from their 
habit of examining witnesses at Nisi-Prius ; on which 
occasions, they are not only obliged to exert all their 
talents, but actually to proceed like inquisitors ; by in¬ 
dulging in the rankest abuse of the witnesses, &c. on 
the opposite side. This, indeed, has been so much the 
case, that one accustomed to such cases, might imagine 
the witness to be on his trial before a court competent 
to extort confessions. The barrister, therefore, relies 
not so much on the justice of his cause, as on the dex¬ 
terity of puzzling his opponent; and in this sort of 
finesse , either party is seldom restrained by the judge ; 
who, when a barrister, had, of course, pursued the same 
plan himself. This very censurable practice makes 
the Irish barrister,in many instances, a most disagreeable 
companion; for, with all his knack of story-telling, he 
is so addicted to contradiction, and to the habit of put¬ 
ting crooked, inconvenient, and disagreeable questions, 
even upon the most unimportant subjects, that a stran¬ 
ger would suppose every assertion required little short 
of an oath to ensure belief, and prevent cross-examina¬ 
tion. 

Curran was, at one period, addicted to this species 
of ill manners; but his exuberant wit at length obviated 
the necessity of resorting to such contemptible means 
of displaying his importance. At the bar, how r ever, he 
retained the professional habit , and frequently played 


154 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


off the most severe jokes and sarcasms, where discre¬ 
tion and kind words would have done honour to his 
head and heart. But no conqueror was ever yet heard 
of, who, on all occasions, carried off the palm of victory. 
Curran now and then met w r ith a rum customer, whom, 
in attempting to floor , he himself was tripped up. 

A young cornet, quartered in Dublin, being in want of 
a charger, bought one from a horse dealer of the name 
of Giles, who kept a celebrated horse bazaar and livery 
stables in the neighbourhood of the barracks. Theanimal 
was warranted perfectly sound, and four years old ; but, 
on being paraded, he was recognised as a campaigner of 
at least sixteen years standing ! 

The young gentleman went to his colonel, and relat¬ 
ed all the circumstances, requesting his advice ; and 
the latter recommended him to return the horse imme¬ 
diately. The animal was accordingly taken by a dra¬ 
goon to Giles, who refused to receive him ; whereupon, 
the comet begged further advice from the colonel, who 
told him to have the horse again led to the livery sta¬ 
bles, and let go into the yard ; then, to bring an action 
at law for the recovery of the amount. 

This was done, and Mr. Curran was retained for the 
cornet. 

When the trial came on, and the plaintiff’s case gone 
through, Giles’s hostler, well known in Dublin by the 
name of Blinker Micky, because blind of one eye, ap¬ 
peared in the witness’s box, ready to swear through 
thick and thin for the defendant. Micky, or Michael, 
was one of the most accomplished blackguards and 
wits of that witty city; and Curran, who was well ac¬ 
quainted with his celebrity, was delighted with the 





JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


155 


opportunity of making a pass or two at him with his 
own weapons. 

44 How goes it, Mick ?” said Mr. Curran, the instant 
that the defendant’s counsel had done with him. 

Micky .— 44 Quite hearty, by the powers of Venus; 
and better for seeing your honour well.” 

Curran. — 44 Well, Mick, how many years—now I am 
not particular to eight or ten—have you known Black 
Drogheda ?” 

Micky. — 44 O plase your honour, we won’t talk of 
years any how; I knew him since he was bought at 
Knocknokery fair, and all the months since, your 
honour.” 

Curran. — 44 And in what year of our Lord was that 
same fair of Knocknokery ?” 

Micky. — 44 Last fair but one, your honour ; and all 
the days before and since.” 

Curran. — 44 That is wide of the mark, my boy ; how 
long has Mr. Giles had him ?” 

Micky .— 44 That same time, sir.” 

Curran. — 44 Tell us how many months.” 

Micky. — 44 About fifteen or sixteen, your honour.” 

Curran. — 44 Years.” 

Micky. — 44 O by the holy! you’ll not floor me that 
way neither; you have no need, counsellor, to help me 
up, before I am down.” 

Curran. — 44 1 ask your pardon, Micky ; all the world 
knows you are an upright boy.” 

Micky. — 44 Thank your honour.” 

Curran. — 44 But come, Mick—my honest fellow— 
don’t belie Black Drogheda, and think to chouse him 
out of his birth-right. Do you mean to say that he is 
not of age ?” 





15G 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


Micky. —“ He is, plase your honour, and well behaved 
for his years.'” 

Curran. —“ Ah ! you are a good lad, Mick.—You 
mean to say, then, that he has arrived at the years of 
discretion ?” 

Micky —“ There is not a genteeler, nor a discruter 
charger in the service, your honour.” 

Curran —“ How long has he served, Mick?” 

Micky. —“ O, by the holy farmer !* now, I know 
nothing at all at all about any service but Mr. Giles’s; 
and he is the man who will give me a crakter any day 
I ax him.” 

Curran. —“ Shall I call Mr. Giles to your character, 
Mick ?” 

Micky. —“ By the ghost of my father!—ye’re no such 

* It is well known that the lower orders of the Irish are much 
addicted to swearing; they practise this bad habit, however, so 
much in common parlance, that they hardly reserve any oath suf¬ 
ficiently powerful, or expressive of anger or dislike, when they 
happen to fall into violent paroxysms of rage; in this particular, 
therefore, they differ from the people of all other nations; and 
resemble only the British seaman, who means nothing , at least no 
harm, when he swears the most horrid oaths. Paddy has the ad¬ 
vantage of Jack in one point; his asseverations, and even curses, 
have something in them either witty or ludicrous, or, at least, anti¬ 
thetic to the subject he is enlarging on ; whilst the sailor’s worst 
anathemas, though eccentric, are generally pointless, and, conse¬ 
quently, u pass by, like the idle wind, which we regard not.” 

One word more on “ Cursing and Swearing.”—The Catholics of 
Ireland (no disparagement) are more addicted to this habit than 
the Protestants, particularly the Presbyterian and Methodistical 
portion of the community; but a few, even of the most puritanical 
of the latter, sometimes indulge, we suppose by way of relief; but 
on such occasions, they contrive to evade the laugh of the scorner, 
by mincing the matter; thus, for “ By the hokey !”—read holy. “ By 
the holy farmer!”—read father, &c. &c. 



JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


157 


fool, counsellor; you are the man that knows a kiroge 
from a carrot .” 

Curran. —“ Well, but, Mick, will you venture to 
swear that Black Drogheda has seen no more years 
than four ?” 

Micky. —“ How could I, your honour?—Mightn’t he 
have been blind before we bought him ?” 

(Here there was a loud laugh at Curran’s expense.) 

Curran. —“ To the point, Micky !—will you swear 
he is no more than four years old ?” 

Micky. —“ Who is he yer honour’s talking of, plase 
yer reverence ?” 

(Another burst of laughter.) 

In this manner did Curran and Micky keep it up for 
half an hour, carte and tierce; Micky giving Curran 
many a hit; himself untouched during the whole time. 
The barrister at length anxiously sought an opportunity 
of throwing him, and leaving him on the ground ; 
demanding, how he could possibly know the horse’s 
exact age, so as to take upon himself to swear to it. 

“ By the table of war!” replied Micky, “ I never 
heard such a question! I’m surprised at yer honour! 
How would I know ? Did not I put my very finger on 
the mark in his tooth ?” 

Now Curran had never had a four-footed beast in his 
possession up to this time, and was altogether ignorant 
of horse-flesh. Eager, therefore, to give his opponent 
a fall, he hastily said, “ Now, Micky, could you tell my 
age , by putting your finger on the mark in my tooth ?” 

Micky instantly replied—“ O, by the hoky! counsel¬ 
lor, I’ll have nothing to do with your tooth—for they 
say ye’re a damned bite /” 

VOL. ii.—14 


158 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


Peals of laughter put an end to the hostler’s exami¬ 
nation. 

The best thing related of Mr. Curran, on the above 
occasion, was the following judicious manoeuvre, by 
which a sum of money was recovered from a scoun¬ 
drel, in whose sa/e-keeping it had been placed by an 
unsuspecting countryman, who came to Dublin for the 
renewal of the lease of his farm. For this purpose, he 
had brought with him hank notes for one hundred 
pounds, which were to be paid as a fine. 

Having taken up his quarters at an inn, he requested 
the landlord to take care of his money for him, as he 
wished to go and look about the city, and to treat him¬ 
self to the theatre that evening. Mine host readily 
undertook the precious charge; hut when, next morn¬ 
ing, the farmer had spruced himself up to attend the 
landlord’s levee, what was his astonishment, on asking 
for his money, to hear the villanous landlord deny any 
knowledge of him, or his hundred pounds ! 

“ By the holy !” said he, “ you gave me no money ; 
and, by the powers ! no money shall you have hack.” 

“ Sure, and it’s not in arnest ye are, masthur!” said 
the countryman, turning pale at the prospect of losing 
his treasure; then recovering himself, he continued, 
with a smile, expressive of fear and doubt, “ Bad luck 
to your jokes at this present writing—make haste, man, 
and give me the notes, else I’ll be late, and I won’t 
have my lase signed at all.” 

“ I know nothing of you or your lase,” replied the 
landlord. 

“ Oh, murdher!” exclaimed the farmer, u does my 
eyesight desaive me, to hear the swindling tief going 











JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


159 


for to deny that I gave him the money, and that, too, 
unknownst to any one, for the entire safety ?” 

“ It’s yourself that’s the swindler, to come for to 
ax me for money that I never seen,” retorted mine 
host. “ But Dublin’s not the place for ye to come and 
play yer tliricks in; and ye’ll find that we’re not to be 
caught so aisy: so take yourself off, ye robber, or, by 
the holy ! I’ll send for the police this blessed minute, 
and swear a highway-robbery against ye, and have ye 
put into Newgate, and hanged for that same.” 

The poor countryman, transfixed with astonishment 
and horror, was for some time unable to reply, but 
continued to regard his plunderer with a vacant stare, 
and open mouth:—at length he found words, and ex¬ 
claimed, “The holy Jesus keep me from all mortal 
sin! Ounly hear to the false tory robber. But I’ll 
have justice of ye, ye murdering tief of the world, if 
there’s law, or justice, or judge, or jury, to be had in 
Dublin cety.” 

Having uttered this threat, he pressed his hat down 
violently over his forehead, and, clenching his hands in 
agony, rushed out into the street, the very picture of 
despair. After walking on for some time, the poor 
fellow bethought him of making his complaint to one 
of the judges at the Four Courts, the magnificent struc¬ 
ture of which he had admired during his peregrination 
the day before, and where he had learned that the 
sages of the law sat daily for the administration of 
justice. 

Although his topographical knowledge of the city 
was very slender, he soon recognised the famous spot, 
and boldly entered the hall, where he soon mixed with 
the throng of attorneys, clients, witnesses, and barris- 






160 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


ters, that paraded up and down; but, seeing no one 
who was likely to give him either advice or assistance, 
he was about entering one of the courts, which was 
also greatly crowded, when an officer told him, in an 
authoritative tone, to stand back. The farmer expos¬ 
tulated, but in vain ; for the man in office, learning that 
he had no business with the cause which was pending, 
peremptorily refused to let him pass:—seeing an unusual 
eagerness and anxiety, however, in the countryman’s 
countenance, he inquired the nature of his business ; to 
which the latter replied, “ I wish, sur, to spake to the 
judge about a murdering robbery that —— 11 

“ Pooh! pooh!” replied the officer, “ you must not 
come here about murders and robberies—why don’t 
you go to a magistrate?” 

The countryman responded, with a deep sigh, “ Sure, 
it’s myself that’s a stranger in Dublin, and I don’t know 
the ways of it. Oh, what will I do this blessed day! 
I won’t get my lase signed at all; and I must not show 
my face at Callagher without it. I’ll be turned out of 
house and home,” (here the poor fellow shed tears) 
“ and poor Norah, and the dear childer, will be obliged 
to take bag, and go out. The holy vargin, and the 
blessed saints, give them their protection!—But,” 
clenching his hands, “it’s no use bodhering about 
judges or magistrates:—I’ll go back this instant, and 
tear the Orange tief’s heart out of his body; it’s no 
more nor he desarves; and, if I’m hanged for the mur¬ 
der, sure it’s better than to be robbed entirely.” 

The officer’s curiosity was excited by the violence of 
the poor man’s emotions; and he inquired who it was 
that had robbed him. 

The farmer replied, “Him, sure, as keeps the car- 



JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


1G1 


man’s inn, down there, in the place they calls Stoney- 
batter.” 

Officer .—“ But there are several carmen's inns:— 
what is his name ?” 

Farmer .—“ His name, sur, is Rooney :—I don’t know 
his Christhun name;—but that’s what’s painted on the 
sign of the house.” 

Officer .—“ What, Nick Rooney, that keeps the ‘King 
William o’ Horseback !’—By jakers ! my good fellow, 
you are fallen into d—d bad hands. Only come across 
Old Nick, and he’ll play the divil with ye. Nick 
Rooney is the worst villain, and the biggest blackguard, 
in all Dublin city; and that’s saying a great dale any 
how. What has he robbed you of?” 

Farmer .— u One hundred pounds ;—bad luck to the 
villain f” 

Offi cer .—“ What!—a hundred pounds !—how did 
Nick rob you of that same?” 

Farmer .—“ I gave him the notes last night to keep 
safe for me; an’ when I axed him for them this morn¬ 
ing, by the powers ! if he didn’t deny clane that ever 1 
giv’d them to him—the false murderer that he is.” 

Officer .-—“ But had ye no witness to that same ?” 
fr Farmer .—“ Is it a witness that ye mane, masthur ? 
Sure, the divil a witness in life was there but myself 
and Rooney. I’d no notion the bloodthirsty spalpeen 
would have thricked me out of the notes, and so I gived 
them to him privately, to prevint myself from being 
robbed by the Dublin thieves.” 

Officer. —“ By the holy St. Proker ! there isn’t a bigger 
thief in all Ireland than Rooney, and ye may take your 
affidavit of that same:—But I’m sorry ye haven’t got 
14 * 






1G2 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


no witness, because, d’ye see, ye’ll not be able to prove 
that ye gave the villain the money to keep.” 

Farmer. —“ By the holy vargin! I’ll take my oath 
of it.” 

Officer. —“ True, for you, my good friend—but that 
isn’t enough to convict the robber. I’m afraid ye’ll not 
be able to recover your money.” 

Farmer .—•“ Ochone ! and is it that you say ?—What 
will I do ?—what will I do ?” 

Officer. —“ By the powers! a thought is just come 
across me:—Counsellor Curran is the boy for your 
money ; if there’s a man in Dublin can do’t, the coun¬ 
sellor is the man. Be aisy with yourself now, and step 
across to Bill Murphy’s, at the Haymow and Pitch- 
fork. Pll come to ye when the Court rises, and I’ll 
take ye to the counsellor without any more delay. 
He’s as cunning as Old Nick, or even the Divil him¬ 
self ; and, I’ll bet ye the worth of the notes, but he’ll 
get them back for ye.” 

Farmer .—“ Long life to ye, masthur !—I’ll do that 
same; and it’s not for to spake of the reward I’ll 
give ye.” 

Officer. —“ Don’t spake of no reward, my good 
friend, I’m happy to serve ye; and I’ll be still more 
so, to see that thief Rooney burnt alive for his rob¬ 
beries. He once refused to trust me a noggin o’ whiskey 
when I was out o’ place; and many’s the gallon I 
drank, and paid for on the nail, at his house, before 
that same; but, byjakers! I’ll be revenged now, any 
how—the brute beast that he is! So, now, step over 
to Murphy’s, comfort yourself with a drop of the cra- 
tur, and smoke your doodeen, and I’ll be with ye in no 
time.” 


JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


163 


w Jasus be wid you,” replied the countryman, cheer¬ 
ing up as he took his departure for the tavern to which 
he was directed. He had not sat there above an hour 
when he was joined by the friendly door-keeper, who, 
after tossing off a noggin of potyeen, accompanied him 
to Curran’s house, in Ely Place. 

Mr. Curran heard the man’s story, and saw instantly 
through the whole affair. He knew Rooney, by report, 
to be a sly, artful scoundrel; and that success in re¬ 
covering the money would depend on the utmost nicety 
of management. He resolved, therefore, to give his 
instructions to the countryman by piece-meal, afraid to 
trust him with too much at one time, in case of bungling; 
and bein£ well aware of the confusion of ideas which 
any matter of importance invariably produces in the 
muddy brain of an uneducated Irishman. 

Having settled his tactics, he said— u You say, my 
friend, that this Rooney denies the receipt of the bank 
notes ?” 

Farmer .—“ 1 do, yer wurchip ; and he’s a false black¬ 
hearted thraitor for that same.” 

“ You have no witness?” continued Curran. 

Farmer .—“ None, my lord—the more’s the pity.” 

Curran .—“ Are you willing, then, to be guided en¬ 
tirely by my advice ?” 

Farmer .—“ Yer honour may swear that entirely.” 

Curran .—“You will take no step but as I direct 
you ?” 

Farmer .—“ I’ll trust myself and the entire thing to 
the direction of yer wurchip’s reverence; and I’ll not 
do nor say nothing but what yer honour will tell me is 
right.” 

Curran .—“ Very well. Now, do you think it possi- 






164 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


ble, by going back to-What part of the country 

do you come from ?” 

Farmer. —“ My native plaice, when I’m at home, my 
lord, is Gallagher, in the county of Tipperary.” 

Curran. —“Very well; do you think it possible by 
going there, that you could raise, borrow, beg, or steal 
another hundred pounds, and be back here in a few 
days?” — 

Farmer. —“ O, murdher !—if it’s a hundred pounds 
of potatees ye mane, I could do it aisily; but as to 
money, I’ve a notion its entire unpossible.” 

Curran. —“ But cannot your relatives assist you ? 
You will require it only for a few days; and I give 
you my word that you shall take it back to Tipperary; 
as I hope you shall the hundred pounds that you have 
lost.” 

Farmer. —“ Sure I’ve got an ould uncle, my mother’s 
own brother, that’s worth oceans o’ money, and its 
worth trying for, yer honour.” 

Curran .—“ Certainly : go then, without delay : say 
to your uncle that one hundred pounds, for a few days, 
will make your fortune; and see that you do not men¬ 
tion your loss to a living soul; but come to me the 
instant you return. I’ll take care that the farm shall 
remain open until you come back.” 

Farmer. —“Long life to your honour’s reverence; 
I’ll do that same; an’ I’ll be back in a jiffy, without 
any delay in life.” 

The farmer, buoyed up by the prospect of regaining 
his lost treasure, departed in good spirits for the county 
of Tipperary; and played his part so well as to return 
in a few days with the needful. 

Having waited on Mr. Curran, the latter sent immedi- 



JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


165 


ately for the friendly door-keeper, whom he instructed 
to accompany the countryman to Rooney’s, in order to 
witness the deposit of the second bundle of bank notes. 
He directed the farmer to plead mistake and intoxica¬ 
tion in regard to his former claim, and to apologize 
accordingly: also to say that he had returned to the 
country, where he had found his money; and that he 
was desirous of making amends for his former suspicion 
of his honesty, by now depositing the money in his 
hands until the morrow ; as he was tired with his jour¬ 
ney, and could not transact his business with the land¬ 
lord that evening. He likewise warned them both to 
be on their guard, that Rooney might not suspect their 
intimacy or business ; and for that purpose he advised 
the countryman to enter on the business before the 
door-keeper made his appearance, which should be 
exactly at the instant when the notes should be count¬ 
ing out. 

They set out accordingly, and the farmer obeyed his 
instructions to the letter; the villain Rooney, no doubt, 
anticipating a second booty. But, seeing the door¬ 
keeper enter, the farmer took up his cue, and said, 
“ There’s the hundred pound, every hap’orth of it: 
count it yourself, Mr. Rooney, and see it’s all right. 
I’ll take a bed with ye to-night, and in the morning I’ll 
be wanting it again, to pay for my lase: ye’ll be sure 
not to fail to be giving me the money when 1 ax ye 
for it.” 

“ Oh ! never fear Nick Rooney for that,” replied the 
innkeeper; “there are the notes safe in my pocket-book; 
and I’ll put that same under my bolster this blessed 
night.” 

The door-keeper saw that now was his time to take 



166 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


a part in the colloquy; accordingly, he exclaimed, 

“ Troth, Mistur Nicholas Rooney, and it is not myself 
would be after trusting such an old Belzebub as you 
are with any money at all. Much better, sure, for the 
farmer to lend me a hold of the flimsies; for I’m an 
honest man ev’ry inch, and I’ll keep them as safe for 
him as if they were lodged in the bank of Ireland.” 

“ By the holy!” replied the farmer, “ but ye’re a 
mighty dacent sort of a brute baste now, to be after 
thinking that I would trust my money wid you that I 
never before sat eyes on. And sure, Mr. Rooney 
ought to give ye a great big bating for the flurty suspi¬ 
cion upon his honour.” 

“Get out of my house, you thief of the world,” 
roared out the landlord to the officer; “what d’ye mane 
by it, sur?” 

“ Ay, bad manners t’ye,” rejoined the countryman, 

“ what d’ye mane, sur, by computing to Mr. Rooney 
that he is a robber, and the likes of that? But, barring 
yer ondacency, isn’t there yerself there to the fore, ye 
spalpeen, to bear witness that I giv’d him the money ? 
Get out, ye blackguard! it’s like enough ye’re a swinler 
yerself, and ye’re trying at this moment to pick my 
pocket: but I knows the thricks of Dublin, I can tell 
ye.” 

The officer now saw that it was his turn to make an 
apology; which he did by swearing that what he had 
said was only a joke, and “ no offence in lifeafter 
which he called for a noggin of whiskey, and took his 
departure. The countryman, likewise, after a short 
refreshment, bent his steps towards Ely Place, where 
he reported progress to Mr. Curran. 

“Very well,” said the counsellor; “now go back to . 


JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 1(37 

the inn alone , and tell Rooney that you have been in¬ 
formed your landlord sails for England to-morrow 
morning, and that you want the money now ; for that 
the only chance you have of getting your lease renewed, 
is by having it done this evening.” 

Away hied the farmer, not well knowing what to 
make of his director’s manoeuvres; but he punctiliously 
executed his message, and soon returned with the mo¬ 
ney : Rooney, though sorry to let the booty out of his 
grasp, was too well aware of the consequences of deny¬ 
ing a transaction, to which there had been (what he 
thought) even an accidental witness. 

On putting the notes down on the table, Curran thus 
addressed his client. “ Well, now, my friend, so far, so 
well: we have now got the rascal fast.” 

“The Lord above be praised for all his tender 
marcies!” replied the countryman; ‘-but, with your 
wurchip’s honour’s lave, may I be so bould as to ob- 
;-ar\ e, that the villain still houlds the money he first 
tuck from me.” 

“ No such thing!” returned Curran : “ Why, you 
blundering blockhead, don’t you see that this is the first 
hundred pounds ; and that you have nothing to do, to¬ 
morrow morning, but to go with your witness, and 
claim the hundred you left with him to-day ?” 

“ The hol y var g in and the blessed saints be good unto 
you, Misthur Curran, all the days of your life,” replied 
the farmer; “ ye advise the right thing any how; and 
I’ll do that same sure enough.” 

Accordingly, next day, the biter found himself bit, 
when the countryman arrived with the officer to claim 
the money which the latter saw him deposit the day 
before: he was compelled to make restoration, in order 
to avoid worse consequences. 







168 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


Curran often told the story, as an instance of his own 
ingenuity; and he declared, that if the countryman could 
not readily have procured the money from his uncle, 
he himself would have advanced the hundred pounds 
for the second deposit, so confident was he of the suc¬ 
cess of his scheme. 


Among the numerous puns of which Curran acknow¬ 
ledged himself guilty, was one which the most merciful 
interpreter of that species of wit must admit to be 
execrable. He had seen it that very morning in a pro¬ 
fessed jest-book, and though confessedly of the lowest 
description of puns, it has been attributed to several of 
the most eminent wits of the day. A dentist, who had 
practised his delicate employment with great success, 
had at last retired into the country near the Irish me¬ 
tropolis, and built, in the worst taste imaginable, a very 
superb mansion, which he had decorated with a fine 
portico, and pillars of the most barbarous kind. As 
Curran was passing it one morning on horseback, he 
met a friend just opposite to the house, who asked him 
if he could inform him to what order of architecture the 
pillars belonged. “ To the Tusk-a.n, most unquestion¬ 
ably,” replied Curran. 

Of some of the jests that had been attributed to him, 
he disclaimed the paternity. Amongst these was a 
jeu d'esprit which belonged to Parsons. M‘Nally had 
a very handsome daughter, who was the subject of 
considerable assiduities from the officers garrisoned in 
Dublin. He peremptorily discouraged their flirtations. 
However, one night, after McNally’s household had 



JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 


169 


retired to rest, a party of hussars assembled under her 
windows, and, two or three of them being musicians, 
serenaded her with a series of impassioned melodies. 
These were but little to M‘Nally’s taste, who, in a fit 
of sudden irritation, threw open the sash, and shower¬ 
ed upon the minstrels a most unsavoury stream from a 
vase, which must not be particularized. The gentlemen, 
upon whom these unwelcome distillations had de¬ 
scended, began to talk very indignantly, and of reveng¬ 
ing it as a deadly affront. M‘Nally felt conscious of 
having gone rather too far, and, having communicated 
the matter to Parsons, asked him what apology he 
ought to make them, if they insisted on his making one. 
“Pshaw!” said Parsons, “tell them that they came un¬ 
invited guests, and you had nothing but pot-luck to give 
them.” 

Whilst Curran was keeping his terms in the Tem¬ 
ple, he attended, as he told us, for the sake of mere 
curiosity, a debating society carried on by a few per¬ 
sons who had more ingenuity than money, and once or 
twice he took part in their debates. The society was 
held at Coach-makers’ Hall, and was open to the pub¬ 
lic, the admission being sixpence. Curran replied to 
three or four orators; but, not knowing how to desig¬ 
nate them by their names, he was driven to the neces¬ 
sity of particularizing them by some distinguishing 
characteristic of their dress. For instance, he alluded 
to them thus :—“ I by no means concur, sir, in the 
observations of the gentleman whose coat is out at 
elbows. He has been ably and satisfactorily refuted by 
the speaker who followed him ; and, in my opinion, he 
has derived but faint assistance from the gentleman 

with the hole in his black breeches.” 

VOL. II.— 15 






170 


MACKINTOSH AND BURKE. 

In my reminiscences of “The King of Clubs,” 1 
forgot to state, that, with the exception of Bobus Smith, 
Mackintosh was the most efficient in conversation. He 
was a subtle dialectician, but unsteady to his principles. 
He seemed to postpone the great aim of metaphysical 
investigation—the acquisition of truth, to the display of 
knowledge, and intellectual gladiatorship. 

I recollect how we amused ourselves with a domes¬ 
tic incident that befell Mackintosh about the year 1802. 
He travelled the Norfolk circuit at that time, having 
found no business on the Home. He had there been de¬ 
livering his Lectures on the Law of Nature and Nations 
in Lincoln’s-Inn Hall. They were well attended by the 
profession, and by persons of the highest political 
eminence. Mr. Canning and Lord Liverpool were 
constantly there. It was a grand display of eloquence, 
somewhat, indeed, too measured, and monotonous, for 
Mackintosh was rhetor plusquam oratore. His style 
was disciplined in the school of Robertson and Gilbert 
Stuart, who, by too cold a correctness, and too religious 
an adherence to the laws of propriety, had converted 
English into an almost foreign language. It was un- 
idiomatic English, and the want of idiom (for idiom 
constitutes the muscular strength of our tongue) emas¬ 
culated their compositions. The lectures, however, 
manifested most unlimited reading, and overflowed 
with every kind of learning. They embraced an im- 


MACKINTOSH AND BURKE. 


171 


measurable field. They began almost with the crea¬ 
tion; and the cardinal principles of natural logic, and 
an inquiry into the history of man’s intellectual powers, 
borrowed, perhaps, from Cudworth, occupied at least 
six lectures. Mackintosh delighted his class, also, by 
the embellishments which he threw over these abstruse 
and uninviting inquiries. He ascribed the doctrine of 
the association of ideas to Hobbes, as its discoverer; 
forgetting that Hobbes had it directly from Aristotle. 
Coleridge, after his lecture was finished, set him right, 
and Mackintosh had the candour to acknowledge his 
error to the class. His hearers were amused with 
delightful quotations from the Roman classics, which 
were flowers scattered over the severe subject of juris¬ 
prudence, that made it at once fascinating and impres¬ 
sive. In this, he addicted himself to the plan of Grotius, 
who embellished every page of his De Jure , with cita¬ 
tions from the Greek and Latin writers, poets, trage¬ 
dians, and philosophers; and he professed, in this 
respect, to have imitated that eminent writer, upon 
whom, in his introductory lecture,* there is the finest 
panegyric that was ever spoken, or committed to paper. 

But yet there was something that was felt to be 
wanting. It was discourse, but not logic. He did not 
seem to stand upon a sound and secure basis of ratioci¬ 
nation. Had his doctrines been submitted to the 
perusal of the class, instead of being confined to the 
slight and transient impression of the ear, these defects 
would have been more apparent. The happiest topics, 
upon which the lecture touched, were, I think, the mas- 

* See Discourse on the Law of Nature and Nations, as an Intro¬ 
duction to a Course of Lectures, &c. Szc. &c.—By Janies Mackin¬ 
tosh, Esq. Cadell, 1801. 




172 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


terly disquisitions on the theory of Mr. Godwin. Indeed, 
propositions, which laid the axe to the root of so many 
old and still prevalent opinions, were regarded with 
general distrust, and the refutations of the lecturer 
were, therefore, favourably received. 

About the period of these lectures, Mackintosh was 
on the circuit. He had left his wife near her accouche¬ 
ment. But that accouchement produced a most por¬ 
tentous augmentation of his domestic bliss, or rather 
his domestic inquietudes. It was as important an omen 
to his fortunes, which at that time were not prosperous, 
as the litter of the sow of imperial augury, “ triginta 
circwn ubera natos ,” was to the future fortunes of 
Rome. He was anxiously looking for letters at Bed¬ 
ford. At Huntingdon, he received one, congratu¬ 
lating him upon the birth of a fine boy. The next 
circuit town is Cambridge. There he found another 
despatch at the post-olfice, announcing the birth of a 
second. It was with a grave smile that he received 
the congratulations of the circuit-table, upon the coming 
of another Marcellus. But he had scarcely arrived at 
Bury, when a third boy was announced to him by let¬ 
ter. The letters had indeed been written after the 
birth of each of this extraordinary progeny. But the 
first only was in time for the post; the second and third 
were written after the respective births they related, 
hut, by some fatality, were not forwarded by one post. 
This monstrous fit of parturiency was enough to sadden 
any man’s visage, but he bore it with great philosophy ; 
nor did George Wilson, the amiable and respectable 
leader of the Norfolk circuit, in the slightest manner 
discompose him, when, in sly allusion to his Lectures 
on the Law of Nature and Nations, he proposed, with 


MACKINTOSH AND BURKE. 


173 


great gravity, the health of Mrs. Mackintosh and her 
three sons—Grotius, Puffendorf, and Vattel. 

On this circuit, Mackintosh obtained a certain share 
of business. The principal part of it fell to the lot of a 
Mr. Nathaniel Best, generally distinguished at the bar, 
from the present Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, 
by the appellation of second Best. But Mackintosh 
fired over their heads. He had not the faculty (an in¬ 
valuable one) of stating any thing with conciseness, or 
epigrammatic neatness. From the dry merits of a case, 
a certain centrifugal quality in his genius for ever kept 
him widely aloof. In short, Nisi Prius pleading was by 
no means his element. He wanted a wider sea to dis¬ 
port his leviathan length, and to play his gigantic gam¬ 
bols. Had his juridical progeny—Grotius, Puffendorf, 
and Vattel, arrived at manhood, (these birds of jurispru¬ 
dence were nipt by an untimely fate,) they might, 
perhaps, have been disciplined to the strict trammels 
of Westminster Hall; but nature had not been consult¬ 
ed, when Mackintosh chose the bar for the exercise of 
his rare and extraordinary talents. When he had an 
uphill case, he had not the art of concealing his per¬ 
plexity, and often had recourse to a long speech, in the 
wanderings of which he lost sight of the point at issue; 
or to laborious and clumsy efforts at being jocose, a 
turn of mind which belonged least to Mackintosh than 
to any man living. With law, too, as a technical 
science, or with what is usually called the practice of 
the court, he was almost untinctured. He had, there¬ 
fore, considerable disadvantages to contend with at the 
bar. 

I remember well hearing from a member of the 

Norfolk circuit, who was sitting next to Plarry Black- 
15* 



174 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


stone, (a sound lawyer of that day, and a well known 
reporter in the Common Pleas,) and near enough to 
overlook what he was writing, when his duty as junior 
enjoined him to take notes of a speech which Mackin¬ 
tosh was delivering in an ejectment cause, that poor 
Blackstone, who was making every struggle to follow 
him, at last growled in despair, and wrote in the folds 
of his brief—“Here Mr. Mackintosh talked so much 
nonsense, that 1 was obliged to throw down the pen”— 
accompanying the remark with a correspondent gesture, 
and actually jerking the pen across the table, and fold¬ 
ing up his papers. 

Yet there were cases, involving high and general 
questions of jurisprudence, in which Mackintosh was 
extremely powerful. His speech for Peltier, who was 
prosecuted during the weak and incapable administra¬ 
tion of Lord Sidmouth, for a libel on Buonaparte, has 
been deemed a master-piece of eloquence and reason. 
Unquestionably it was a great production, but it was 
not adapted to a jury; for to a jury Mackintosh, in the 
slang of the courts, never knew how to go. Its merits 
were transcendently great, but they were relative only. 
The general topics of Buonaparte’s restless and un- 
tameable ambition, his gigantic usurpations, the liberty 
of the press, and the impolicy of instituting such pro¬ 
secutions at the instance of a potentate, who had left 
nothing undone to complete and to consolidate his enor¬ 
mous domination, but the extinction of the last remain¬ 
ing free press, that yet existed to plead the cause of the 
civilized world ; these were urged with most splendid 
effect. 

Unhappily, however, amidst all this blaze of elo¬ 
quence, poor Peltier himself, who had engaged and 


MACKINTOSH AND BURKE. 


175 


paid the advocate to defend him, was wholly overlooked. 
His defence scarcely peeped forth, if I may use the 
phrase, from under a massy accumulation of general 
discussions of policy and justice, and the international 
rights of the two countries. The innocent quality of 
Peltier’s animadversions, who was merely remarking 
upon acts of undeniable aggression against the liberties 
of Europe—the dastardly spirit of the British govern¬ 
ment, who, in ordering that information to be filed, had 
actually been the foremost in obeying the mandates of 
a foreign usurper, were wholly passed over. I met 
Windham one day, returning from Concannon’s election 
committtee. He had just heard an able and ingenious 
speech from Mackintosh, and was talking of the plea¬ 
sure which he had received from it, as an high intel¬ 
lectual treat: but recalling at the same time the 
impotent defence of Peltier, he could not help qualifying 
his panegyric, by exclaiming, Oh ! si sic omnia dixisset! 
He lamented that Mackintosh, on that most vital ques¬ 
tion, as it concerned the fortunes and fate of the poor 
emigrant, should have got up so elaborate an oration, 
which, notwithstanding the effect it produced, was 
framed, not for the protection of his client, but for the 
display of himself. It was nearly as bad as a surgeon, 
who being called in to perform a specific operation on 
a certain part of the body, should think nothing of his 
poor patient, but proceed, for the purpose of showing 
his skill in anatomy, to cut and hack the system in 

As a writer, Mackintosh has been variously estimated. 
His first work was the celebrated Vindiciaz Gallicce. This 
was afterwards followed by a smaller tract, in a letter 
to Sir Philip Francis, on Parliamentary Reform. It 



176 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


fell still-born from the press. Of the former work, it 
would not be easy to say how much of its merit was 
genuine and intrinsic, and how much casual and ad¬ 
ventitious. Most happily for its reputation, it appeared 
at a period when party feelings were intensely excited, 
and when Burke’s sublime and almost inspired com. 
mentary upon the French Revolution, diffused so gene¬ 
ral a despair amongst its partisans, that scarcely any 
champion would be found hardy enough, to descend 
into the arena against that fearful adversary. Mackin¬ 
tosh’s tract appeared, and instantly overtopped the 
whole brood of answerers, whose ephemeral existence 
it speedily extinguished. It was universally read, and 
admired to enthusiasm by those who had embraced the 
popular cause. Yet, after Burke, the flow of its sen¬ 
tences was cold and regular, and even its most finished 
passages seemed unimpassioned and lifeless. The few 
flowers that adorned it, showed pale and sickly; or, in 
their gaudiest hues, seemed as if they were forced and 
stercoraceous. Even Paine, in his celebrated answer 
to Burke, exhibited, on occasions, much more fervour 
of imagination than Mackintosh.. 

Windham said, that there was scarcely to be found 
in the writings of Burke, of whom he was a warm 
idolater, a metaphor more beautiful in itself, nor more 
exactly illustrative, than that which pain Paine used 
whilst he was commenting upon Burke’s exclusive 
sympathy for the fallen throne and ruined aristocracy 
of France, without bestowing an equal portion of com¬ 
miseration on the people, who had endured the ills of 
the subverted government. “Mr. Burke pities the 
plumage,” says Paine, “but he forgets the dying bird.” 
“ When I read that passage,” said Windham, “ I almost 


MACKINTOSH AND BURKE. 


177 


cried witli Pierre— 4 1 could have hugged the greasy 
rogue, he pleased me so. 1 11 

From the monotonous and measured style of elo¬ 
quence, which is a prominent characteristic of the 
Vindicice Galliae, Mackintosh’s improved taste after¬ 
wards weaned him. In the Monthly Review of 1796, 
he reviewed for Griffiths, the then editor of that journal, 
Mr. Burke’s Thoughts on a Regicide Peace,—and cer¬ 
tainly a finer political disquisition hardly ever appeared. 
All its propositions are admirably limited, and logically 
stated; and the controversial asperities, which now 
and then broke forth in the Vindiciae Gallicae, having 
been in a great measure softened by the more subdued 
state of party feelings at the time he wrote it, as well 
as by the admiration of that great author, which Mack¬ 
intosh, in common with every man of taste and letters, 
must have felt—it was a calm, dispassionate animad¬ 
version on the excesses to which Burke had pushed 
his principles, and by no means a marked opposition 
to the principles themselves. 

The constitutional indolence of the writer, for the 
partiality of friendship has never denied that he was 
deeply infected with the charms of that seducing syren, 
did not permit him to pursue the subject beyond two 
articles; but they attracted universal attention, and 
above all other distinctions, they procured him the 
acquaintance of Burke himself; who, from his sick-bed, 
(for his constitution was rapidly sinking,) invited him to 
Beaconsfield. 

Mackintosh staid there two days, and often related 
the very interesting conversations that passed during 
this memorable visit. In the short intervals from pain 
which his disease allowed him, Burke was frequently 


178 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


cheerful. But the exuberant flow of his mind, which 
was a tablet on which every variety of knowledge, 
every species of learning was inscribed, whether recon¬ 
dite or light, was never for a moment suspended. No 

cloud, whether of sickness or of sorrow, had darkened 

#*;-•'** . 

either his memory or his imagination. When the dis¬ 
course turned upon politics, then it was evident how 
he felt for his country, and the great cause in which 
she then stood foremost amidst the general wreck of 
Europe. She was his latest vow; but he was not a 
little querulous of the puerile policy, as he called it, on 
which she was then carrying on war with the Jacobin, 
and he could not forbear breathing portentous prophe¬ 
cies of its result. > 

Talking of the anti-moral paradoxes of certain phi¬ 
losophers of the new school, he observed, with indig¬ 
nation—“ They deserve no refutation but that of the 
hangman. Carnifice potius quam argmnentis egent. 
Their arguments are, at best, miserable logomachies; 
base prostitutions of the gifts of reason and discourse, 
which God gave to man for the purpose of exalting, 
not of brutalizing his species. The wretches have not 
the doubtful merit of sincerity; for, if they really be¬ 
lieved what they published, we should know how to 
work with them, by treating them as lunatics. No, 
sir, these opinions are put forth in the shape of books, 
for the sordid purposes of deriving a paltry gain, from 
the natural fondness of mankind for pernicious novel¬ 
ties. As to the opinions themselves, they are those of 
pure, defecated Atheism. Their object is to corrupt 
all that is good in man—to eradicate his immortal soul 
—to dethrone God from the universe. They are the 
brood of that putrid carcass—that mother of all evil, 


MACKINTOSH AND BURKE. 


179 


the French revolution. I never think of that plague- 
spot in the history of mankind without shuddering. It 
is an evil spirit that is always before me. There is not 
a mischief by which the moral world can be afflicted, 
that it has not let loose upon it. It reminds me of the 
accursed things that crawled in and out of the mouth 
of the vile hag in Spenser’s 4 Cave of Error.’ ” Here 
he repeated that sublime, but nauseous stanza. 44 You, 
Mr. Mackintosh, are in vigorous manhood; your intel¬ 
lect is in its freshest prime—and you are a powerful 
writer. You shall be the faithful knight of the romance 
—the brightness of your sword will flash destruction 
on the filthy progeny.” 

Even in the midst of those painful and convulsive 
spasms which were almost perpetually assailing him, 
the playfulness of his imagination did not desert him. 
Whilst Mackintosh was conversing with him, Burke 
was seized with a vehement spasmodic pain, which 
was relieved by vomiting. The matter which pro¬ 
ceeded from his stomach was watery, but tinged with 
strong streaks of black. 44 There,” said he, probably 
in allusion to the overcharged and exaggerated descrip¬ 
tions imputed to him by his political opponents. 44 There, 
I have been accused of being too bold a painter. There 
it is now; black and white, light and darkness, Rem¬ 
brandt to the last.” 

The conversation once turned accidentally upon his 
son, the late Mr. William Burke, whose premature 
death was, it is well known, more the proximate than 
the predisposing cause of the disorder which brought 
such a course of protracted suffering upon Mr. Burke, 
and his death, which happened not very long after 
Mackintosh’s visit. It was unmixed grief. It suffered 


180 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


no comfort, no satisfaction to approach him ; even the 
kind and affectionate cares of Mrs. Burke were un¬ 
heeded. It was that suppressed sorrow—that broken 
heart that buries its victims by hundreds—that disease, 
for which the medicinal art has neither a name nor a 
category, which never intermits its work, and corrodes 
unseen even under the smiles which the forms and 
conventions of life compel us to assume. 

“You, Mr. Mackintosh, knew my departed son well,” 
said Burke. “ He was in all respects a finished man, 
a scholar, a philosopher, a gentleman, and, with a little 
practice, he would have become a consummate states¬ 
man. All the graces of the heart, all the endowments 
of the mind, were his in perfection. But human sor¬ 
rowing is too limited, too hedged in by the interruptions 
of society, and the calls of life, for the greatness of 
such a loss. 1 could almost exclaim, with Cornelia, 
when she bewailed Pompey, (you know that fine 
passage in Lucian,) 

‘ Turpe mori post te solo non posse dolore.’ ” 

m . ■ mm. NHkjg 

It is a remarkable circumstance that William Burke, 
whom parental idolatry had sketched as a being of the 
rarest perfections both of genius and understanding, 
was not a man of extraordinary powers. He was a 
truly sensible man, well read in the literature of a 
gentleman; but by no means entitled to such superla¬ 
tive panegyric. By his early death, therefore, Burke 
was spared the agony of seeing his son fall off from the 
promise of his youth, and the lofty and sanguine hopes 
of his father. Such a disappointment would have been 
too much for a man of Burke’s exquisite sensibility, 


MACKINTOSH AND BURKE. 


181 


and it would have inflicted upon him a species of sor¬ 
row, equally acute, and not softened by the tenderness 
and affection with which we mourn for those that are. 
dear to us. 

Mackintosh was as ungenially planted at Bombay, to 
the Recordership of which he went out in 1803, as 
Lord Erskine on the Chancery Bench, or Curran at the 
Rolls. A constitutional indolence, the master vice of 
those who have arduous duties cast upon them, and 
important interests to protect, as well as an inaptitude 
for law in its confined and municipal sense, made him 
slow, dubious, and timid. In this respect he differed 
from Eldon, who hesitated from having too much law 
in his memory, and from being perplexed amongst too 
great a variety of analogies. The causes, therefore, 
particularly those in equity, were tediously protracted, 
and these delays, in a country, the jurisprudence of 
which recognises it as a sacred maxim, that speedy 
injustice is better than tardy justice, were severely felt, 
and bitterly complained of. 

Nor did Sir James feel himself quite easy in the 
society of the settlement. The European inhabitants 
were generally either civil servants of the Company, 
officers in the army, or commercial residents. They 
were unread and unscholar-like beings, and addicted, 
as all petty circles are, where the intellect is not in 
high cultivation, to those local gossipings, without 
which they could scarcely support the burthen of 
existence. Against these, Mackintosh waged unrelent¬ 
ing war; but the blockheads in all places are a powerful 
faction, and they had ultimately the best of it. 

This made him fretful and impatient of his exile, 
and he reminded those who exhorted him to remain in 

VOL. ii. —16 




182 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


the country till he had acquired a comfortable com¬ 
petency, of the feelings expressed by an eminent Roman, 
who was then in banishment, in reply to an exhorta- 
tory letter from Cicero, advising him to be patient, and 
to endure the inconveniences of exile with resignation. 
“ You,” said he, “ are giving me these admonitions, not 
amidst the mountains of Thrace, but amidst the social 
delights and philosophical intercourses of Rome; how 
easy is it to give advice to tolerate calamities, with 
which you are not yourself visited.” It is certain, 
however, that Bombay, which is the worst of all our 
settlements in the East Indies, was far from being a 
pleasant residence to a man who had been so dis¬ 
tinguished a member of the literary circles of the 
metropolis. 

They used to tell an absurd anecdote of Mackintosh’s 
occasional forgetfulness of the ordinary usages of the 
world, in which, it must be confessed, he was at all 
times a most inexpert student. Upon his first arrival 
at Bombay, Jonathan Duncan, the then governor, a 
quiet, amiable man, and fearful to excess of giving 
offence, wishing to show the new judge every attention 
that was due to his station, and there being no house 
ready for the reception of Sir James and Lady Mackin¬ 
tosh, offered them the accommodation of his own gar¬ 
den-house in the island for a few days, till they could 
find a habitation to their own liking. Sir James accepted 
the polite offer, and the family took possession of Mr. 
Duncan’s delightful villa. Months and months elaps¬ 
ed ; but the tenants found themselves so comfortable, 
that they never dreamed of removing. After they had 
remained there a twelvemonth, with as much tranquil¬ 
lity as if they had been the absolute proprietors of the 


MACKINTOSH AND BURKE. 


183 


mansion, Mr. Duncan, who was himself desirous of in¬ 
habiting it, thinking that the recorder, through some 
mistake, had conceived it to be his own property, re¬ 
solved to give him some intimation that it was not so; and 
in order, therefore, to exercise some act of ownership, 
he sent a man with orders to dig up a sack of potatoes 
in the garden, for the use of his own table. The man 
was seen by Lady Mackintosh from the veranda, who, 
convinced that he was purloining her vegetables, sent 
a posse of servants after him, to take away the pota¬ 
toes, and turn out the trespasser. Mr. Duncan now 
thought that it w r as time to act with less delicacy or 
reserve. He wrote a note, accordingly, to Sir James 
and Lady Mackintosh, very politely assuring them, that 
the house and garden were his own property, and not 
that of Sir James or his lady. The hint was taken, and 
Jonathan re-entered into possession. There can be no 
doubt that the circumstance arose from pure mistake. 
Sir James conceived it, probably, to be an official 
house belonging to his station, and reposed upon that 
conviction, without taking any pains to ascertain its 
correctness. 

Sir James has not been highly distinguished as a par¬ 
liamentary debater. He hardly ever dashes, to use 
Tierney’s phrase, ding-dong into a debate. It is chieily 
as a speaker of elaborate dissertations upon general 
questions of international polity, that he is heard with 
attention ; and he repays it. He puts forth much that 
strengthens, all that adorns his reasoning. But the 
House of Commons is not the place for the umbratiles 
doctores. His language, indeed, is always polished, and 
occasionally nervous. The total want,. however, of 
graceful action and pleasing manner—the rattling 


184 


SLPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


harshness of his dialect, which seems to be of no pro¬ 
vince or country, but peculiarly his own; above all, the 
iron inflexibility of his tones, are insuperable obstacles 
to his speaking either usefully or impressively in that 
assembly. Charles Moore, the brother of the unfor¬ 
tunate general, and contemporary with Mackintosh at 
the bar, and the most consummate imitator of public 
speakers that ever was heard, used to say, that he took 
the greatest pains to catch Jemmy’s tones"; but, fortu¬ 
nately, whilst he was making the effort, and almost de¬ 
spairing of success, an old Jew clothesman happened 
to pass under the window of his chambers, whose cry 
was so exactly in unison with the intonations of Mack¬ 
intosh’s voice, that he followed him for a quarter of an 
hour; and was, by means of that lesson, enabled to 
give us a tolerable specimen of Mackintosh’s delivery 
of his lectures, which he executed with great spirit, and 
to our unspeakable amusement. 

But Sir James Mackintoshes a thinker and a writer, 
has secured a less brilliant, perhaps, but less transient 
reputation, than that of a parliamentary orator. Had 
he aspired to a reputation still more valuable, he would 
have kept the promise, that has so long tortured both 
readers and booksellers; he would have commenced 
or completed his celebrated historical work, which has 
never appeared. It was to have been continued down 
to the period of the French Revolution, too late a 
period perhaps (a recent failure has proved it) for legi¬ 
timate history ; but the difficulty would have vanished 
in his hands, had he sat down to it with spirit and re¬ 
solution. It is, I fear, destined to await the Greek 
calends. 


185 


I. O. U. 

'The Sixty-sixth Regiment of Foot, commanded by 
General Gabbet, was quartered, some years ago, at 
Nenagh, in Ireland, a populous and fashionable neigh¬ 
bourhood, where the officers had received great civility 
and attention. To return this, in some sort, the general 
invited all the gentry round about to a ball and supper, 
the evening before their departure for other quarters. 

However reluctant the writer may be to mention 
this fact, truth demands the avowal; that, though the 
general was a most magnificent fellow, it was very diffi¬ 
cult to extract payment of the debts which he was in 
the habit of contracting, from the untoward circum¬ 
stance of his expenditures vastly exceeding his means. 
Whatever debts he did pay, however, were usually 
discharged by his Aide-de-camp , Major Vowell, a gen¬ 
tleman of as much tact in the settlement of a bill, as 
his commanding officer was in contracting the same: 
the major was quite au fait at lopping off extra 
charges; or, if need were, in genteelly evading pay¬ 
ment altogether. 

On the day appointed, Nenagh and its vicinity were 
all in motion. The company being arrived at the prin¬ 
cipal inn, or hotel, which was kept by one Forrester— 
tea, coffee, and excellent punch were served—card- 
tables were displayed—the dance commenced—dozens 

upon dozens of the best claret and champaigne were 
16 * 


186 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


decantered, and quaffed: all was hilarity; and, at 
length, a most splendid supper was set before the 
guests. During the whole of this time, the gallant 
general, with his grand chamberlain and secretary, the 
major, did the honours of the assembly, in a manner 
which did great honour to the regiment. They were 
to be seen every where, in polite attendance on the 
guests—the male portion of whom loudly and repeat¬ 
edly expressed their satisfaction, by toasts and healths 
“ to the Sixty-sixth!” whilst the ladies sighed at the 
prospect of being to be so soon bereaved of the society 
of so noble a corps! 

The repast being at an end, the ball recommenced ; 
and now was the time judged most fit by Forrester to 
present his bill. For this purpose, he sought for the 
general throughout all the apartments, but in vain, for 
the latter was no where to be found; he and Major 
Vowell had slipped off, and taken their departure, just 
in the nick of time when poor Forrester’s appearance 
was suspected. 

At length the poor fellow thus addressed Captain 
Breviter:—“ Blood and thunder! captain, where is the 
general ?” 

Breviter, perfectly understanding the drift of the 
question, replied—“ O, damn it, Forrester, our general 
is great at a retreat.” 

The landlord, who was greatly chagrined by this in¬ 
telligence, exclaimed :—“ By Jasus, then,has he walked 
off with himself entirely?—If so, by the holy poker! 
I’m clane done out of house and home. But, captain, 
sure enough his honur has left Vowell to settle the 
score ?” 


I. o. u. 


187 


Breviter, laughing heartily, replied:—“O, yes by 
G—d ! he has left you three Vowels—1—O—U.” 


An Irish ex M. P., essaying to relate the above anec¬ 
dote one night at Boodle’s, in the presence of several 
gentlemen who had heard it before, commenced his 
narrative by saying, “ It was the funniest thing he had 
ever heard in his life;” but, unfortunately, when he 
came to the winding up, he plainly discovered that he 
was quite ignorant of the true meaning of the joke :— 
for, to the question by the landlord— u But , captain , sure 
enough his honour has left Vowell to settle the score?” 

Mr. M- made Breviter answer, “ O yes, by Jasus, 

Forrester, he has left you five or six of them—A—E— 
I—O—U—Y ” 

Poor M-, as he finished this list of vowels, laugh¬ 

ing immoderately, excited much greater merriment than 
he could have done by relating the bon-mot in its 
genuine state. 








188 


THE BANK OF KILLARNEY. 

/ ^ 

M To speak of the banking system in Ireland during 
the late war, and, indeed, at the present day,” said an 
Irish gentleman, one evening at Brookes’s, is as bad as 
talking of fire to a man who has been burned out, and 
lost all his property in the flames. To such an extent 
was this species of robbery carried, at one time, that 
provincial or country notes were issued for sums so low 
as three-pence ; whilst those for six shillings were actu¬ 
ally accounted high.” 

Another gentleman having expressed amazement at 
this state of things, the first speaker gave the following 
instance of the truth of his assertion :— 

“ In the town of Killarney,” said he, “ was one of 
these banks; the proprietor of which was a kind 
of saddler, whose whole stock in that trade was not 
worth forty shillings ; but which forty shillings, if even 
so much, was the entire amount of his capital in the 
banking concern. 

“ I once accompanied a large party of English ladies 
and gentlemen to that enchanting spot; where, having 
amused ourselves for a few days, we were on the point 
of returning to Dublin, when one of the party recol¬ 
lected that he had in his possession a handful of the sad¬ 
dler’s paper. Accordingly we all set out, by way of 
sport, to have them exchanged ; our principal object 
being to see and converse with the proprietor of such a 
bank. 


THE BANK OF KILLARNEY. 


189 


u Having entered the shop, which barely sufficed to 
admit the whole company, we found the banking sad¬ 
dler hard at work, making a straddle. One of the 
gentlemen thus addressed him :— 

44 4 Good morning to you, sir; I presume you are the 
gentleman of the house.’ 

44 4 At your sarvice, ladies and gentlemen,’ returned 
the saddler. 

44 4 It is here I understand that the bank is kept V con¬ 
tinued my friend. 

44 4 You are just right, sir,’ replied the mechanic ; 4 this 
is the Killarney Bank, for want of a better.’ 

44 My friend then said— 4 We are on the eve of quit¬ 
ting your town : and as we have some few of your notes, 
which will be of no manner of use to us elsewhere, I’ll 
thank you for cash for them.’ 

44 The banker replied, 4 Cash! plase yer honour, what 
is that ? is it any thing in the leather line ?—I have a 
beautiful saddle here as ever was put across a horse; 
good and chape, upon my say so. How much of my 
notes have you, sir, if you plase ?’ 


44 This question required some time for an answer, 
calculation being necessary; at length my friend count¬ 
ed them out, as follows :— 





£. 

s. 

d. 

Three notes for 3d. each - 

- 

0 

0 

9 

Two 

do. for 4d. each ... 

- 

0 

0 

8 

Two 

do. for 6id. each, half a thirteen 

- 

0 

1 

1 

Three 

do. for 8£d. each, three-fourths of a 

thirteen 

0 

2 

n 

Two 

do. for 9d. each ... 

- 

0 

1 

6 

One 

do. for Is. Id., or one thirteen 

- 

0 

1 

1 

One 

do. for Is: 6d. ... 

- 

0 

1 

6 

One 

do. for 3s. 3d. or three thirteen? 

- 

0 

3 

3 

One 

do. for 3s. 9^d., or three thirteens and a half 

0 3 

£0 15 

9* 

9 



190 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


“ 4 There, sir, said he, are no less than sixteen of your 
promises to pay, i or the amazingly large sum of fifteen 
skillings and ninepence, sterling money.’ 

44 4 By the powers, then, it’s yer honour may say that 
thing; for, if sterling means true to the back-bone , it’s 
the Killarney notes will keep out for the year round, 
without no changing at all at all.” 

44 4 No doubt, no doubt,’ said our spokesman ; 4 but we 
are upon the eve of departure, and shall require change 
on our journey.’ 

44 4 By Jasus, ye will require that same thing, sure 
enough; but, I vow to my God, I’ve no more silvur 
money in the place nor these four tinpinnies, and a few 
harpurs,* as isn’t worth your Lordship’s notice.’ 

44 ‘Good heavens! sir,’ returned the gentleman, 4 how 
is it possible that you can carry on the banking business 
on so slender a capital ?’ 

44 4 O, by the hokey ! aisy enough, my dear,’ replied 
the banker; ‘the craturs are delighted to have my 
beautiful notes; for there is very little other money 
stirring in these parts, and they buy their potatis and 
butter-milk with them ; and may be a sheep and a pig 
or two, now and then; and so the notes pass on from 
one to the other very comfortably.’ 

44 4 But you are continually liable to have them sent 
in upon you for their value,’ observed one of the com¬ 
pany. 

44 4 By the holy Paul, and St. Peter to boot! that’s 
true enough, yer wurchip : wheniver any of the farmers 
wants a horse collar, or a straddle, or other harness, 
they brings me a handful of the paper; and it’s 


* Irish halfpence, having the harp impressed on one side. 


THE BANK OF KILLARNEY. 


191 


myself niver refuses to give them a good article in 
exchange.’ 

44 4 0° y°u mean to say, then,’ continued the gen¬ 
tleman, 4 that your notes are never required to be 
cashed ?’ 

44 ‘Cashed!’ echoed the banker; 4 is it changed ye 
mane ?’ 

“ 4 Certainly,’ replied the querist. 

44 4 By the powers of Venus ! it’s.that same is a great 
expense to me! The craturs bring me back the notes 
when they get ould and ragged; and it’s myself never 
yet refused to change them for beautiful new ones, fresh 
from Dublin city; and I puts my name to them to make 
them go the faster.’ 

44 Here the whole party, finding it impossible to re¬ 
strain their mirth, set up a loud shout of laughter; upon 
which the banker thus continued :— 

44 4 Upon my say so, I’m right glad to find so worchip- 
ful a company enjoy their merriment; but it’s myself 
knows well the power o’ money it costs to get them 
engraved so beautiful, and to get them printed on such 
nice thick paper—ay, five hundred at a time, by 
Jasus !’ 

44 4 Do you mean to say, then,’ said the first gentle¬ 
man, 4 that the holders of your notes never demand 
the lawful money of the country in exchange for them?’ 

44 4 Sure, yer lordship, isn’t the notes themselves law¬ 
ful enough any how ? But is it silver ye mane V 

44 4 Certainly,’ returned the querist. 

44 4 Oh, by the powers !’ replied the banker, 4 the 
people hereabouts wouldn’t insult me by axing the 
question: if they did, may be the bank would stop 
payment; and then there would be no money at all at 


192 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


all. No, by Jasus ! they would be sorry to do any such 
thing; they give the notes to one another, when they’re 
tired o’ keeping them, or when they want to buy any 
thing. I get more bodher, axing yer honur’s pardon, 
in changing the notes for the gentry as comes to see the 
lakes, than from all the rest o* my paper put together. 
The big divil fly away with the Lakes o’ Killarney! 
say I.’ 

44 4 Then, I presume, sir,’ said the gentleman, holding 
out the notes, 4 we have no occasion to waste more 
time in endeavouring to obtain payment for this parcel 
of paper of yours ?’ 

44 4 1 should be sorry, most noble,’ returned the bank¬ 
er, 4 to waste any more of your lordship’s time, or of 
those sweet, beautiful ladies and gentlemen; but, 1 have 
an iligant bridle here, as isn’t to be matched in Yoorup, 
Aishy, Afrikey, or ’Merikey: its lowest price is 15s. 
6^d. —we’ll say 15s. Gd. to yer lordship. If ye’ll be 
plased to accept of it, there will be twopence half¬ 
penny, or a threepenny note coming to yer lordship: 
and that will close the business at once.’ 

44 4 Really, sir,’ said the gentleman, laughing, 4 1 have 
no occasion for the bridle : it would only be an incum¬ 
brance to me.’ 

44 4 May I have the bouldness, then, to ax when yer 
lordship will lave town V inquired the banker. 

44 4 Our carriages are at the door of the inn,’ replied 
the gentleman, 4 and we only wait for the adjustment 
of this affair with your bank.’ 

44 By the holy ! how unfortunate !’ exclaimed the 
banker, scratching his head: 4 but, as naether saddle 
nor bridle lie in yer lordship’s way, if ye could but just 
delay yer journey till the Cork mail comes in, I expect, 


THE BANK OF KILLARNEY. 


193 


by the coach, a thirty shilling Bank of Irelander; and 
then we’ll settle the business in a jiffy: though, upon 
my deed, and deed, and double deed! you have no 
occasion to be in the least dread or uneasiness about 
the notes; becase, d’ye see as how, there is not a 
banker from this to Dublin, ay, or to Galway, that 
would not be proud to take Jack Ryan’s paper.’ 

44 4 That is not so very certain, my good fellow,’ re¬ 
turned one of the gentlemen; 4 the people on the road 
know us to be strangers, and they will require payment 
in the legal coin of the realm.’ 

44 4 Pray, sir,’ said the banker eagerly, 4 does yer 
honur mane to take the road to Millstreet? because, as 
how, you must go that way any how, there being no 
other. Oh! then, it is there, Mr. Cotter will be glad 
to see so fine a company at his iligant hotel; and joyful 
will he be to entertain you with the best, both for man 
and horse, for the notes of the Killarney Bank.’ 

44 It being in vain to think of any exchange of this 
non-circulating medium, the English gentlemen not 
attaching the same importance to it as the banker, the 
party wished him a good morning, and took their leave ; 
laughing heartily at the adventure. 

44 It is an ill wind, however, which blows nobody 
good; when the party arrived at the inn door, they 
found the carriages surrounded by nearly two hundred 
unfortunate mendicants ; amongst whom the gentlemen 
let fly their notes, in order to have a passage cleared ; 
and took their departure while the miserable creatures 
were scrambling for the alms.” 

VOL. II.—17 


194 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


Hundreds of anecdotes might be related of the Irish 
Banks ; but, the following will suffice to show the 
general disrepute in which their notes were held among 
the people ; although the necessities of the latter com¬ 
pelled them to pass from one to the other this base 
fabrication, instead of real money; or, indeed, instead 
of even a paper representative payable on demand . 

'S 1 ' p % 

CHANGING A NOTE. 

It was the custom in the city of Cork, during the 
French war, and, perhaps, is still, for a number of the 
respectable citizens to assemble every morning at the 
post-office window; waiting the delivery of letters and 
newspapers. Amongst them were generally to be seen 
a banker of the name of Bonwell, and a gentleman of 
the name of Mitchell, who was strongly suspected of 
republican principles. Whilst they waited, politics 
were generally the topic of conversation: a subject 
on which Bonwell held forth with energy; making up, 
by the loudness of his voice, for lack of sense or 
argument. 

One day as he expatiated, in glowing terms, on the 
merits of consistency; although, pending the American 
war, he had given many proofs of attachment to liber¬ 
ty ; and, indeed, had openly advocated American 
Independence. 

This was by some of the company thrown in his 
teeth ; and one gentleman said, “ that he had changed 
his political opinions only since he had commenced the 
profitable trade of banker.' 1 

Upon this, Bonwell became quite furious, and ex- 


THE BANK OF KILLARNEY. 


195 


claimed, “It is a lie, sir!—a d—d lie !—Where is the 
man who will dare to charge me with inconsistency ?” 

Mitchell, seeing that it was time to interpose, to 
prevent challenge, and at the same time desirous of 
hitting the banker in the tenderest part, said, in a quiet, 
but most sarcastic tone, “ Upon my word, gentlemen, 
this accusation against Mr. Bonwell is really unjust ; 
for, to my own knowledge, and, indeed, to that of us 
all, he has not changed his note these three years at all 
events alluding to the invariable practice of the 
Cork Bank, of exchanging one set of notes for another 
parcel of the same paper. 

This capital repartee set all to rights; for it caused 
a loud laugh against the banker, and was the means of 
preventing a settlement of disputes of a more grave 
character elsewhere. 


196 


IRISH WIT AND CHARACTER. 

There is no country under heaven where wit is 
more keen and extemporaneous than in Ireland. All 
ranks possess it; but the lower orders, in = particular, 
are noted for the quickness and ingenuity of their re¬ 
plies. Whether this peculiar gift arises from any innate 
quality of soil or air; from their temperate vegetable 
diet; or from their mercurial, careless temperament, 
which enables them to make light of any subject, how¬ 
ever serious or distressing; or whether it proceeds 
from all these causes combined, is a point which must 
remain undetermined. Though a devotee in his reli¬ 
gion, the puritanical mien and cautious-manners of the 
Scot would sit heavily on the Irishman, and render 
him uncomfortable ; and though sincere, warm-hearted, 
and generous, his native politeness preserves him at an 
equal distance from the bluntness (miscalled honesty) 
of an Englishman. In short, if the Irish people resem¬ 
ble any other nation, it is the French : they are equally 
gay, volatile, and thoughtless : would that they were 
as happy! 

The above question respecting the native wit of 
the Irish was agitated on one occasion by a party at 
Brookes’s, and innumerable anecdotes were related in 
illustration. The writer presents the following to his 
reader, being those which come most readily to his 
memory. 


IRISH WIT AND CHARACTER. 


197 


Astley, the celebrated equestrian, had an amphitheatre 
in Dublin, where he often experienced rough usage 
from the lower orders, on account of his incessant ex¬ 
pressions of ultra-loyalty; which loyalty, however, re¬ 
commended him ta the favour of the people in power. 

On the convalescence of the King, George the 
Third, in 1789, Lord Buckinghamshire celebrated the 
happy event by a splendid display of fire works on 
Stephen’s Green ; the whole to be conducted by Astley. 
When every thing was duly arranged, our pyrotechnist 
set off for the castle, to apprise the viceroy; and, on 
his way, stationed an artillery soldier on the leads of a 
house at the top of Grafton street, who was to let off a 
signal rocket for the commencement of le feu cVartifice. 

This arrangement was overheard by some disloyal 
wags, who moved down the street after Astley. Having 
allowed as much time to pass as would suffice for him 
to go to the castle, probable delays there, and return, 
out roared one of them in the voice of one in haste, 
and exactly resembling Astley’s, the sound being pitch¬ 
ed to the roof of the mouth, and imitating the London 
cockney dialect—“Halloo! you ’tilleryman! let auf 
that there rocket!” 

Away went the rocket, and off went the fire-works ; 
of which there was not one scintilla remaining by the 
time the cortege arrived from the castle ; to the extreme 
joy and amusement of the Dublin wags; but to the 
great mortification of poor Astley, who stamped and 
swore like a trooper. 

He offered twenty guineas reward for the discovery 
of the delinquent; but this only made the affair more 
public, for no one would ’peach ; and, whenever he 
performed at his theatre, his ears were sure to be 
17 * 


198 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


saluted, from the gallery, with the ominous words— 
u Halloo ! you ’tilleryman ! let auf that there rocket!” 


At a large party in Munster, the celebrated O’Con¬ 
nor was asked, and gave permission that his piper 
should be present to entertain the company. This man 
was considered to be the most capital performer on the 
bag-pipes, of his time, in all Ireland. On the present 
occasion, he played several airs so delightfully, and 
with such expression, that all were in raptures. 

In the course of the evening, one of the guests, de¬ 
sirous of making a display of his loyalty, called for 
“ God save the King /” To which the minstrel objected, 
saying, “he did not play that tune.” The gentleman 
persevered in his request; but the more importunate he 
was in urging it, the more obstinate was the piper in 
declining to play. 

At length, having tried the poor man upon every 
key, he demanded, “ if the air was not grand, sublime,” 
&c. &c. to which the minstrel readily acceded. 

“ Why not play it, then ?” continued the gentleman. 
u I don’t approve of the words,” was the reply. 

The gentleman endeavoured to obviate this objection, 
by observing that the company did not want the words ; 
they wished merely to hear the air. 

u Impossible to separate them,” replied the minstrel. 
“ 1 make my pipes speak!” 


“Much has been said,” observed an Irish nobleman, 
ir repecting potatoes, as food for the Irish; as if they 




IRISH WIT AND CHARACTER. 


199 


could not eat or drink like other people !—in fact, there 
are some persons who actually imagine that Paddy dis¬ 
likes the very sight of fish, flesh, and fowl ; and that he 
has no notion of any kind of drink save raw potyeen, 
or whiskey ! 

“ That the potatoe contains a considerable quantity 
ol nutritious matter, cannot be denied ; but that three- 
fourths of a nation, from whatever cause, should be 
compelled to feed entirely upon this root, or starve , is 
disgraceful to the government which permits such a 
state of things ; whilst it exhibits to an astonished world 
a greater degree of patience under oppression, than was 
ever before shown by any nation upon the face of the 
earth. I once asked an Irishman, whose wretched 
family was greedily devouring a dish of potatoes in their 
skins, why he did not kill one of his pigs to feed himself 
and children;—he answered, ‘Oh! by the powers! 
your honur, that’s more than I daur do ! If 1 only laid 
a finger on a pig, or a cow, or a sheep, with intent to 
kill, I’d have the landlord, and the parson, and the 
tithe proctor upon me, before I could turn myself round! 
No, no, masthur, the craturs must go to pay the rent, 
and tythes, and other dues, that myself knows nothing 
of; the divil fly away with them all!—If I can get a 
little dhrop of milk for the young childer, with their 
pratees, sure it’s myself is content; for it’s beyond the 
power of me to make things better.’ But, let the 
opinion of one Irishman suffice for all upon this subject. 

“ I one day asked a poor fellow whether he was fond 
of potatoes. He answered, ‘ Plaise yer honur, I don’t 
dislike them at all;— sure , they're very zvell zcilha bit o’ 
maet .’ Now, this poor fellow, and all his equals for 
miles round, to my certain knowledge, never ate a bit 


200 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


of animal food, from the first day of January until the 
thirty-first of December, except a morsel of old ram, 
or bull beef, for three days at Christmas! 

“ But to show you, gentlemen/’ continued the speaker, 
“ that the Irish, though fond enough of animal food, are 
temperate in their diet, (for they are by no means gross 
feeders in any case, whatever attachment they may have 
to good drinking, and plenty of it ,) I will relate a con¬ 
versation, in which a gentleman of my acquaintance 
bore a part.” 

My friend, travelling by the Cork mail to Dublin, on 
a fine summer’s evening, having abandoned his seat 

within, mounted the coach box, where he was much 

/ . 

entertained with the sallies of wit from the coachman 
and guards. 

Learning that the coachman had been in the Tipper- 
rary militia, and in England, he was desirous to hear 
his account of the sister kingdom ; and said to him, 
“ So, Pat, you have been in England ; what do you 
think of that place ?” 

“ My name is Michael, plase your honourreturned 
the coachman, with a slight degree of hauteur.* 

“ I ask your pardon, Michael,” said the gentleman, 
“ I meant no offence.” 

“ I thank your honur,” replied the coachman, “ 1 
would niver suspect it.” 

“Well, Michael,” continued the querist, “what do 
vou think of England ?” 

“ Indeed, sir, it is a fine country,” responded Michael, 
“ and what wonder is that!—aren’t the Sassonacs plun- 

* No Irishman likes to be called Pat , unless his name be Patrick; 
he considers such familiarity to be an insult to his country as well 
as to himself. 


IRISH WIT AND CHARACTER. 


201 


dering the four quarters of the globe, and Ireland in the 
bargain, to help out their extravagance? Ounly look 
at our poor country—what a figure they have made of 
it !” 

“You are a bit of a politician, Michael,” observed 
the gentleman. 

“ Plase yer honur,” replied the coachman, “ it does 
not require much knowledge for an Irishman to find 
that out—it is plain enough, by Jasus, every step ye 
take.” 

“ But, Michael, what do you think of the people of 
England ?” continued the gentleman. 

“ Upon my say so, sir,” responded the coachman, 
“ they seem to be a mighty honest and good kind of 
people—that is, as far as they would let one of us know 
them; though, certainly, 1 must say, I took notice of 
one great fault amongst them.” 

“ What is that?” inquired the traveller. 

“ They are entirely too fond of glottuning themselves 
with flesh maet,” returned Michael, “ it must make 
them cru’l and bloody-minded—what else is it that 
makes them so fond of hanging one another?—didn’t 
these two ears of mine hear sintence of death pronounced 
upon a poor starving cratur of a Lancashire woman 
with three smaal childer, for ounly taking an apronfull 
of potaetis, that wur spilt from a cart on the road?” 

“ That was very horrible, Michael,” observed the 
gentleman ; “ but, perhaps, you, yourself, are not fond 
of flesh meat!” 

“ In raison, plase yer honur,” replied the coachman, 
“ upon my word ! if yer honur was to give me the run 
of your larder, 1 wouldn’t touch flesh more than once a 
day, five days in the week.” 


202 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


“ Michael,” said the gentleman, archly, “ suppose 1 
was to give you the run of my cellar ?” 

“ Oh, by the powers! masthur,” replied coachec, 
“ I’d drink yer conic till it corn’d out o’ my nose.— 
Wine and good sperrits gladden the heart of man, and 
make himjovial ; whilst the maet makes a tiger and a 
slug of him at the same time.” 


At an election for the representation of the City of 
Cork, a Mr. Bousfield was what is called the popular 
candidate; and, after some days sharp poling, his tally 
not being ready, he directed one of his counsel to keep 
a voter of Colonel (the present Lord) Hutchinson as 
long as he could, to gain time. 

It was well known that the elector in question was 
what, in Ireland, is technically designated a Buck —that 
is, one who is bribed to swear to a freehold he never 
possessed. This man claimed the privilege of voting 
by virtue of a tenement in Maypole Lane, which he 
described as a slated house , built of stone , three stories 
high ; although every house in the lane in question 
consisted but of one story, and were built of mud, and 
thatched. 

The counsel requested the buck to give particulars 
of the dwelling—asking him how it was inhabited. 
To which he replied—“ I live on the ground-floor 
myself, where I carry on my trade of shoe-making; 
my first floor is let; and the garret is untenanted at 
present.” 

“ And how much rent do you pay for the house?” 
continued the counsel. 



IRISH WIT AND CHARACTER. 


20 ;? 


“ Oh, by the hokey! is it tell ye my bargain ?— 
catch me at that, any how ! By the powers of Moll 
Kelly ! if I was to tell such a thing to a laayer he 
would put a leg under me in a jitfy, and spin me into 
the street.” 

The barrister was delighted with the loquacity of 
his man—it being exactly what he wanted, to prolong 
the time; and he began again : “ My good friend,” said 
he, “ 1 have been often in Maypole Lane, and I never 
happened to see such a house there as you describe; 
perhaps you mistake the name of the street.” 

“ There’s a bull for ye !” cried the voter—“ if you 
will make a street of a lane, I am done with you.” 

This was a poser for the barrister; but he recom¬ 
menced the charge, determined to run the buck from 
the top of the house to the bottom; accordingly, he 
asked “ how much rent he received for the attic ?” 

“ There, again, said the voter,” appealing to the 
sheriff; “ after telling him I had no tenant there at 
present.” 

“Well, how much do you get for the first floor?” 
continued the barrister—“ there, at least, you have 
lodgers.” 

“ I said no such thing,” retorted the buck. 

The barrister here appealed to the sheriff, who 
decided in his favour. 

“ By the rod of St. Patrick! then,” said the voter, 
“ I’ll hould you a sneaker o’ punch I never gived any 
such answer;—how could I say lodgers, when I have 
only Mister Kagle, the blind piper, in my chamber?” 

“How much rent does the piper pay, then?” de¬ 
manded the barrister. 


204 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


“ By the holy St. Proker!—find that out by yer 
laming,” answered the buck. 

Colonel Hutchinson now addressed the sheriff, ob¬ 
serving, that “he saw no necessity for so strict a 
scrutiny; for, that the voter was ready to take the 
freeholder’s oath, which was all that could be required 
of him.” To which the barrister replied, that “ when 
so flagrant an imposition was attempted, as to tender a 
vote out of a slated house, three stories high , in Maypole 
Lane, it was the duty of the sheriff to reject his vote, 
or call upon the assessor for his opinion.” 

The assessor gave judgment in favour of the scrutiny, 
and the barrister began again; saying, with a smile, 
“ Come, now, my honest fellow, do tell us how much 
ground rent you pay for your house.” 

The voter replied—“ By the powers of daicency! ye 
art so cruel civil, that I’d be sorry to be out-done in that 
line :—to tell ye the plain truth, then, the divil a penny 
1 pay at all, at all, for it.” 

“ Upon my honour, I believe you,” said the barrister; 
“ but, regarding this tenement of yours ; I think I must 
pay you a visit in Maypole Lane.” 

“ In troth, I’ll be happy to see you,” returned the 
voter; “ will ye now give me the favour of your com¬ 
pany to dinner on Sunday ?—you shall have a leg of 
mutton and turnips, done to a tanzay.” 

“ Let me, first, be better acquainted with your resi¬ 
dence,” replied the barrister, “ lest I lose my way :— 
once more, then, if you please.” 

“To it, my hearty,” rejoined the buck. 

The man of law, now looking very wise, and raising 
his voice, said, “ You have told us that you occupy the 


IRISH WIT AND CHARACTER. 


205 


ground floor yourself; that your first floor is let to Mr. 
Kagle, the piper; and that your upper story is empty?” 

The buck, casting a look of indescribable archness 
at his examiner, shaking his head, and gesticulating 
with his hand, exclaimed, in reply, “ By the full moon ! 
counsellor, I am afraid your own upper story is empty!” 

The learned gentleman was floored, and the auditory, 
who had all along laughed heartily, now burst into a 
general roar. The buck, however, gave his vote : and 
the dexterous man of the robe gained his point of spin¬ 
ning out the time until the hour of adjournment, which 
enabled his client to be prepared for the next morning. 


At another election, for the county of Cork, the con¬ 
test between Lord Kingsborough and Mr. Townsend 
was sharp, of long duration, and conducted with every 
species of trick and manoeuvre. One of the methods 
adopted for obtaining votes was,by inducing Protestants* 
to swear to ten pound freeholds, who never, in their lives, 
were owners of a single rood of land! 

One of these bucks, or gentlemen-freeholders, being 
brought up for Lord Kingsborough, Roger Barrett, the 
counsellor for Townsend, examined and cross-examined 
him most minutely, and abused him most vehemently; 
but, maugre every legal objection, the buck gave his vote. 
Whilst he was doing this, Townsend’s agent pointed out 
to Barrett’s notice, a chain and key which hung from 
the voter’s fob, to give him the appearance of respecta¬ 
bility : and remarked, that he had taken notice, that 

* The Catholics had not then the elective franchise. 

VOL. II.— 18 



206 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


these very identical appendages had been worn by the 
last score of Kingsborough’s bucks ; 44 and that he was 
positively certain there was no watch attached to 
them.” 

44 We’ll see to that,” said Barrett; and calling to the 
buck as he was descending from the poll-table, he said, 
t4 My good friend, what was your reason for taking up 
so much of our time by your crooked ans.wers ? You 
have been on that table for at least two hours.” 

44 More shame for you, counsellor,” replied the voter, 
44 to be after keeping a jontleman from his ’musements 
and his ’creaitions, whilst you was but following yer 
trade of talking all the while ! But arn’t ye ’shamed o’ 
yerself, Mister Barrett, to tell sich a big thumping lie 
in the face of the court, as to say that I ha’ been here 
two hours ?” 

44 What time was it, then,” returned Barrett, 44 when 
you mounted the table ?” 

44 1 don’t know,” replied the freeholder , 44 1 did not 
look at my watch .” 

44 Well,” continued Barrett, thinking that he had the 
buck in his trap ; 44 1 can tell the very minute that you 
were roused from your lair:—tell us what o’clock it is 
by you now.” 

44 Is it after the manner ye behaved to me ?” returned 
the voter, 44 By Jasus! I wouldn’t give ye the satisfac¬ 
tion of telling ye the time o’ day : let the same watch 
that tould ye when I corned, inform ye of the time 
when I made my escape from sich incivility; so, good 
morning to ye, Mister Counsellor Barrett!” 








207 




FRENCH EMIGRANTS IN ENGLAND. 

Among this body of unfortunate foreigners, a certain 
M. Dumont was well known and esteemed by many 
individuals of rank and literature in London. Dumont 
was of a lively character, and he contrived to make his 
companionship agreeable, in spite of his eternal cita¬ 
tions from 44 Les Jardins ” of his friend, the Abbe de 
Lisle. Whilst the storm of the French revolution was 
only yet impending, Dumont transmitted to England a 
considerable portion of his property, and subsequently 
* lived here in easy and tranquil independence, giving 
frequent petits soupers , in the Parisian taste, where 
many of the most intelligent of the emigrants used to 
assemble. 

Dumont was also a frequent and welcome visitant at 
Lansdowne-House, and was beloved and valued by 
many persons of high distinction, English or foreign. 
From morning to night he was employed in acts of 
beneficence towards his less fortunate countrymen. It 
was silent, unostentatious beneficence, which, working 
its way, like a subterraneous current, never alarmed the 
pride or the delicacy of those whose hearts it gladdened. 

Can there be a more unquestionable test of true and 
unaffected benevolence than these quiet ministerings to 
want and wo ? Our emigrant used to remark, and 
that too without the satisfactions of national self-love, 
which would derive a complacency from the contrast, 
too often to be found in this respect amongst our own 




208 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


countrymen, that he scarcely ever met with an instance 
of an unworthy return of his kindness either in actual 
ingratitude, or an improvident and extravagant abuse 
of it. Amid that gloomy wreck of all their comforts, 
the emigrants lived with the most scrupulous economy, 
feeling a species of cheerfulness, if not of gladness, 
under every privation. And of these were many whose 
splendid hotels were, not many months before, scenes 
of unfailing plenty, elegant hospitality, and social glad¬ 
ness. Indigence did not affright them, nor lull them 
into that supine and cheerless indolence, that torpid 
inactivity of the mind and its faculties, the most fearful 
adversary which he, on whom the hand of Heaven lies 
heavy, has to encounter. 

The little accomplishments, once the spontaneous 
amusements of their leisure, were now resorted to as 
the sources of existence. Marquisses, Counts, Barons, 
taught Italian, French, music, drawing, and even dan¬ 
cing. English charity was not withheld on this occa¬ 
sion ; but it was almost a nation holding out its 
hands for food. The pensions afforded by the British 
government were necessarily limited. 

Dumont mentioned to us a remarkable and affecting 
instance, in which a widowed lady, la Marquise de 
* * * * *, of high birth and almost royal ancestry, had 
refused the pension proffered to her, and had retired to 
a garret, where she was literally pining in want. Such 
was the almost insane excess to which she carried her 
feelings of delicacy and dignity. 

In this melancholy exigence, the poor lady was 
found by one of her compatriots, who had formerly 
belonged to her household, and had been one of her 
confidential laquais. He was indefatigable in discover- 






FRENCH EMIGRANTS IN ENGLAND. 


209 


sng her retreat, and many an inquiry had been baffled 
before he found it. From his own scanty pittance he 
contrived to protract the existence of his unfortunate 
mistress, though the little that was left was barely 
adequate to sustain his own. Lest this might be disco¬ 
vered by the jealous pride of his mistress, with an 
amiable hypocrisy, he assured her that there was quite 
enough for both, beseeching her not to abridge her 
repasts. 

As nature, however, could not go on long in this 
way, he conquered his sense of debasement, and sta¬ 
tioned himself as a beggar, from morn till night, at the 
entrance of a well-frequented alley at the west end of 
the town. The slender gains of this occupation he 
carried home every night; but carefully concealed 
from his mistress the manner in which he had been em¬ 
ployed. He never approached her without the utmost 
respect, and the usual obeisances of a lacquey of the 
old regime ; and he passed his nights in a small out¬ 
house. 

Misfortune had soured a temper, naturally haughty, 
and she frequently scolded the faithful creature for 
staying away so long, and leaving her quite unattended. 
To these reproaches he never made the least reply, 
continuing, till her death, the same affectionate minis¬ 
tration to her necessities. 

With this affecting story, Dumont became acquaint¬ 
ed by mere accident. It was too late, however, to 
force relief upon the unbending spirit of the Marquise, 
who, nevertheless, by a singular sophistry in her pride, 
condescended to receive it at the hands of her former 
servant, assuring herself, that she could reward and 
indemnify him, upon her return (which she so fondly 
18 * - 


210 


SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTES. 


expected) to her wealth and territory. Dumont, much 
to his honour, made the faithful creature, whose cares 
had lengthened out her life, comfortable for the residue 
of his own. 


I was pleased with an ingenious argument of Du¬ 
mont’s upon the question—whether the art of acting 
was rendered more perfect, when the actor himself felt 
the passions of the scene ? Dumont contended that the 
maxim of Horace, 

“ Si vis me Here, dolendum est prius,” &c. &c. &c. 

was wholly inapplicable to the theatre. The true 
painter, he said, selects only from nature that which is 
picturesque, or fit to be painted. If he cannot find it 
in nature, as is frequently the case, he combines that 
which is consonant to nature, or at least that which 
does not degrade her, with that which she furnishes to 
his hands. So, a good actor, when he represents the 
stormy rage, or the fixed despair, or the sudden sorrows 
of humanity, must not watch, and literally copy, the 
exact effects of those emotions in their actual operation 
on the countenance, the voice, the gesture, but he will 
naturally consider what is most befitting to human 
dignity in his representation of those passions. Were 
lie to watch their operations in common and domestic 
life; were he, for example, to transcribe, exactly, the 
effect really produced there by some instantaneous 
stroke of grief, and faithfully imitate the workings of it, 
he would represent what is essentially deformed and 



FRENCH EMIGRANTS IN ENGLAND. 


211 


unseemly ; for grief, as well as the other violent pas¬ 
sions, is deformity, producing attitudes that are ungrace¬ 
ful, and unfit to be copied. The maternal grief of the 
Niobe is the beau-ideal of grief—not as it would, in real 
life, be expressed by a mother, who suddenly sees her 
children prostrated by the bolts of heaven. It is the 
grief most becoming our nature; the most exalted 
species of it, which holds forth man as a being, not 
debased by affliction, but still claiming the compassion 
of Heaven, and the reverence of his fellow creatures. 
Whereas the actor, whose nerves are so weak that he 
really feels the emotions, which it is his province only 
to excite in others, will represent their natural, not 
their moral or picturesque effect. He will blubber, and 
whine, and display sorrow, not in its grand and majestic 
outlines, but in puny and disgusting details; and, ac¬ 
cording to the degree of indolence, which he permits 
to his sensibilities, will he recede from the perfection 
of his art. 


212 


ROGERS, THE POET. 

The author of the “ Pleasures of Memory” was not, 
when I knew him, some years ago, the indefatigable 
punster it is now the fashion to represent him. He 
was addicted to a dry and often hitter sarcasm, which 
was not much relished; but his conversation sparkled 
with anecdote, and his criticisms were characterised 
by a severe and discriminating taste. He used to con¬ 
fess, that in his poetical compositions, he was far from 
being a Lord Fanny.* His verses were beaten rather 
than cast. A couplet often cost him considerable 
labour—some persons said, not unfrequently, a fort¬ 
night. This is, I think, sufficiently visible even in his 
first and most beautiful poem; and sometimes he seems 
to give up the task of completing his couplet in despair. 
For, at the opening of that exquisite piece, amidst the 
tranquil stillness of the village-green, and the dying 
sounds of a summer twilight, when the occupations 
and sports of the hamlet are alike hushed, is the fol¬ 
lowing disconnected distich, which he seems, by every 
effort of joinery, to have vainly attempted to force 
together:— 

“ All, all are fled, jet still 1 linger here— 

What pensive sweets this peaceful spot endear!” 

Even then it was the fashion to liken the pale visage 
of the poet to all sorts of funereal things— Trislis- 

* “Lord Fanny spins a thousand such a day,”— Pope. 



ROGERS, THE POET. 


213 


sima mortis imago! But Ward’s (now Lord Dudley) 
were the most felicitous resemblances. Rogers had 
been at Spa, and was telling Ward that the place was 
so full, that he could not so much as find a bed to lie 
in, and that he was obliged, on that account, to leave 
it. “ Dear me,” replied Ward, “ was there no room in 
the church-yard?” 

At another time, Murray was showing him a portrait 
of Rogers, observing, that “it was done to the life” 
“ To the death, you mean,” replied Ward. Amongst 
other amusing sallies of the same kind, was his asking 
Rogers—“ Why don’t you keep your hearse, Rogers?— 
you can well afford it.” 

1 remember well, that Rogers, just after the publi¬ 
cation of his “ Pleasures of Memory,” had received, 
from some powerful but unknown hand, some elegant 
stanzas on the subject of his poem, but selecting only 
topics of unpleasing and mournful retrospect. One 
stanza he particularly admired, and repeated it to us:— 

“ To me, she tells of bliss for ever lost; 

Of fair occasions, gone for ever by; 

Of hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely crossed; 

Of many a cause to wish—yet fear to die.” 

These lines he considered almost perfect, and wished 
very anxiously to know the author. This opportunity 
was afterwards presented to him at the King of Clubs. 
It was a Mr. Soames, a young man of great promise, for¬ 
merly at Cambridge. He afterwards entered the army, 
and died in India, lieutenant of his majesty’s 25th 
Dragoons. 


I 


214 CONCLUSION. 


If these recollections, in which candour will not de¬ 
mand a regular series or continuity, or any thing more 
than a miscellaneous groupe of shadows, like those 
evoked by the Sybil in Virgil, (though I must not say 
with her, explebo numerum , for the catalogue is inex¬ 
haustible, and might be lengthened to many volumes); 
if these recollections have been laborious to peruse, 
they have not been less laborious to trace. Many have 
been sought for through the mist of intervening years, 
or roused from their burial places in the memory, 
which has rendered them up with reluctance. The 
portraitures, however, will be found in the main toler¬ 
ably correct. Being sketched at a close, perhaps too 
close a proximity to the characters themselves, some 
of them who are high in rank, and high in public esti¬ 
mation, may have lost some of the effect which distance 
lends to great and elevated objects. They have been 
taken too in their undress attire, in the carelessness of 
the social hour ; in short, amidst the unrestrained ease 
and familiarity of the Club. They are a part, at least, 
of an experiment to arrest and delineate the humours 
of the national character, which is never seen, in its 
native and unmixed form, better than in these friendly 
corporations. And these little corporations are, cha¬ 
racteristically, British ; for, 1 have seen many countries 
and conversed with many travellers, and I have never 
heard that, out of this island, they have been carried on 
in the same spirit, or founded upon the same principle. 
In Germany, besides the collateral purpose of smoking, 
they would be dedicated to one specific end. Where 
they consisted of literary men, discussions on transcea- 






CONCLUSION. 


215 


dental metaphysics would raise a cloud as dense as 
their pipes. They would never (an essential requisite 
in our Clubs) 

“ Let Euclid rest or Archimedes pause.” 

And, in France, the appetite of our agreeable neigh¬ 
bours for change, to whom sameness is torture, and who 
always are fatigued out of existence, except whilst they 
are treading a ceaseless round of amusement, the per¬ 
petual recurrence of the same faces, in the same circle, 
however diversified the converse, or the topics, would 
be intolerable dulness. 


THE END. 


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